


Catalyst

by fortunatelykeendetective



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Baby in intensive care, Birth anomalies, Bisexual John Watson, Canon-Divergent post S3, Death in Childbirth, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Romance, Eventual Sex, Grief/Mourning, Infant Death, John and Mary are not happy, M/M, Major Character Death (not John or Sherlock), Married Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Medical Procedures, Mutual Pining, Parentlock, Referenced partner violence (not John or Sherlock), These two idiots finally Talk To Each Other, everyone cries, referenced homophobia, soft john, soft sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-15
Updated: 2018-03-25
Packaged: 2019-03-31 20:50:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 16
Words: 28,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13983078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fortunatelykeendetective/pseuds/fortunatelykeendetective
Summary: The (canon-divergent) story of how John and Sherlock finally Figured It Out through a whole lot of grief and loss.





	1. Abruptio

**Author's Note:**

> THIS IS NOT A WIP. This is a complete work and will be updated regularly.  
> This is an intense story - it's not terribly long, but there's a whole lot going on. I had to go to some pretty difficult places mentally to write it, so it took me a LONG time to write - like, since before S4 aired (so there is zero S4 content in here).  
> Most of the medical stuff in here is based on my real-life experiences and I've tried to make it as accurate as possible. However, I am not British so the medical practices to which I'm accustomed may differ from how it's done in the UK.  
> Please heed tags. But I do promise a happy ending. :)  
> I love concrit and other feedback, including if you think I need to tag something specific, and I welcome any questions you have.

5 January 2015 3.37am

 _Sherlock, I need you to know this. I’m in hospital with Mary. She woke up bleeding a good bit and as you know, she’s just barely 37 weeks*. I know everything is arse-over-tits right now, but I needed to tell you at least that much. I don’t know yet what they’re planning to do_. – JW

3.39am

 _I think you’ll agree it is best if I stay here for now, but if you need anything, I will be there. Do keep me posted, no matter what. Always_  –SH

3.40am

 _I will. Thanks._ – JW

***************

“Oh God, John. There really are two pink lines, come look!” Mary had said to him that fateful morning on their honeymoon.

 _Well, shit,_  John had thought. This certainly complicates matters.

John hadn’t planned on being a dad just yet, and he’d always taken precautions to make sure that wouldn’t happen. Even after he and Mary were engaged, he’d made sure they used condoms every time, even though they really didn’t have sex all that frequently. Mary wanted to, surprisingly often, but John had had a difficult time putting his whole heart into the act.

John had sat with his head in his hands, weighing his options while his pregnant wife slept in the next room of their villa on the Mediterranean coast. _Her idea, that._ While as a physician he very much believed that access to abortion was both a person’s right as well as a public health issue, he knew Mary well enough to know that she wouldn’t consider it in this situation. So, plan B. A baby certainly made it more difficult to do what he’d been planning to do – and that was have their marriage annulled on grounds of voidability. Not that he still couldn’t have done it legally – there was probably a case to be made for coercion – but he didn’t want to imagine a world where Mary might use his child against him if anything were to go sideways down the road. Plan C? Stay with her, if only temporarily. It wasn’t a good option, but in a life that had so far not been so kind to John Watson as to offer him good options, staying with Mary had been the least terrible. Like a soldier, he’d thought. And he’d stood, squared his shoulders, and gone in to lie down beside his wife.

****************

5 January 2015  06.30am

Goddamnit, John should know which end is up, but right now the ward is a blur of noises, smells, and doctors tromping in and out. The obstetrician, the neonatal people, the nurses, the housekeepers, all doing just doing their jobs but no one makes any fucking sense at this time of morning. John’s exhausted, but this is not the weariness of early-morning interrupted sleep; it extends, he feels, down to his mitochondria. Years of war and nightmares followed by years of pretending of an altogether different sort, then two years of grief, then pretending he loves his wife….well, he is worn to crispy nothingness. If a gale blows through he may just disappear into it. Thanks to his occupation he should have a better grasp of what’s going on in the hospital around him – God, he is trying – but the majority of his neuronal efforts go into simply existing.

The lights in the room are dim and the staccato _badadum-badadum-badadum-badadum_ of his daughter’s heart on the foetal monitor reassures the obstetricians that, for the moment, she is alright.

“Mister Watson, would you like us to talk to you like you’re a doctor or like you’re a husband and father-to-be?” asks a blue-eyed Irish obstetrician who has come into the room to evaluate Mary’s current condition.

 _“_ Please. Talk to me like I have no idea what’s going on _,”_ he says. _  
because right now I don’t,_ he adds to himself _._

The physician continues, “We think your wife’s placenta is abrupting – that is, we believe the placenta has started to separate from the wall of her uterus. Because Mrs. Watson’s pregnancy is thirty-seven weeks along, and because we believe the separation is occurring slowly, we are going to practice watchful waiting, in hopes that she will give birth before the abruption becomes critical for either her or the baby. We firmly believe that keeping the baby in for as long as safely possible is our best course of action; however, it is possible that the abruption will continue to occur and we will have to deliver the baby emergently. We are watching her foetal monitor strip for signs of distress in utero. If at any point the monitor shows signs of distress or the bleeding continues or suddenly increases, we will at that point deliver via emergency caesarean section. We anticipate a healthy baby considering that thirty-seven weeks is considered full term. Do you have any questions?”

 _A million questions, none of which you can answer,_ screams John’s internal monologue. His mouth manages to croakily whisper, “No, Doctor. That’s pretty clear. Thanks.”  
*****************

5 January 6.37am

 _What am I doing here?_ John thinks to himself.

John has chased all manner of loathsome criminal all over Britain with Sherlock. He has lived with every identifiable body part or fluid somewhere in his flat. As a combat medic and surgeon, if a body cavity can be named, his hands have been inside it. John Watson doesn’t get fazed by much.

But he recognizes the absolute incongruity of this situation, the exhaustion mixed with the boiling rage, and _Jesus-anywhere-but-here-with-anyone-but-her_ that he feels right now.

He knows who Mary is – well, who the hell knows who she _really_ is – but he knows she’s not who he thought she was when he met her in the deepest throes of grief after Sherlock jumped. He has played the game for too long and isn’t sure how much longer his patience will last. He wants nothing to do with the woman in the hospital bed less than a metre away from him, but for now, for here, he must keep up the charade.

John Watson, always the good soldier. John Watson, always the little boy trying to stay out of trouble and do what he thinks is right. Same story, writ larger and later. He loathes the woman beside him, but his daughter is still his daughter.  
  
******  
5 January 6.38am

 _They think it’s a placental abruption. Watching and waiting for now._ _Will do a caesarean if anything becomes emergent._ – JW

5 January 6.49am

 _No doubt you know more about this than I do. I sense that I am of little use to you right now but please know that if I can help you in any way, I will._   -  SH

 

5 January 6.51am [draft, unsent]

 _Christ, Sherlock. You’ve no idea how much I ne-_  
  



	2. Stat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let's just dive right in with the intensity, shall we? This was a hard section for me to write. I've tried to do it respectful justice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John has some uncomfortable thoughts about Mary and his daughter in this chapter. The stuff about Mary is directly related to her actions and her (in my opinion) villainous character, and John is a complex, complicated human being. Like all of us, he’s not 100% a good person all the time. The stuff about the baby is related to the strange things grief can do to a parent’s mind. In no way do I mean to imply John doesn’t love his daughter; as you will soon see, quite the opposite is true. Nor do I wish to imply that babies with this particular condition are ugly; however, it has been my experience that their appearance does startle parents when they see their babies for the first time, and that’s what I’m trying to convey. 
> 
> Also, you will see that I stuck with S4 nickname of Rosie, but I didn’t stick with Rosamund as her given name. Just couldn’t do it.

5 January 8.51 am

“JOHN! Ring for the nurse!”

John’s brain switches from crusty-tired husband to trauma surgeon at the timbre of Mary’s panicked voice as he glances up to see her throwing off her bedsheets. Her hospital gown hangs around her pregnant belly ( _linea nigra_ , John thinks for no good reason other than that it’s visible), leaving her lower half completely exposed. Blood and several fist-sized clots pour out of her vagina and John recognizes it for what it is – an emergent worsening of the abruption.

_Off to theatre, then._

In the inkiest black thoughts that crowd his mind at the moment, John is of a mind to not ring for anyone. He is completely unready to deal with the implications of this at the moment, but he’s far more prepared to see Mary die than he was – ever will be – prepared to live without Sherlock.

_Do right by your daughter, Watson._

Of course John will do right by his daughter.

John rings for the nurse and immediately the room is a flurry of sounds and of people who unplug things, reassure Mary that she’s going to be in capable hands in theatre, and talk to John to keep him in the loop of information. There are no consents to sign, as the physicians had taken care of that when they’d realised they were dealing with abruptio placentae and knew a caesarean might be a possibility.

In the span of what feels like hours but is more like nine minutes Mary is being wheeled into the operating theatre, neonatologist and newborn nurses on hand, and the surgeons scrubbed and ready. As much blood as is pouring out of her, as much distress as his baby is in now and as much blood as she’s already lost he’s pretty sure they’re going to do what they called in med school a _splash-and-slash_. No time to do a proper abdominal prep, just put her to sleep, throw some antiseptic on her belly and cut. Getting baby out quickly will be their top priority.

“Mr. Watson, if you’ll please wait out in the theatre waiting room. We’ll come find you as soon as we have an update.”

Numb in heart, mind and body, and eyes glazed over, John Watson shuffles to the family waiting area and grabs a cub of stale coffee. It tastes like a mixture of hot water and sweaty feet but it’ll have to suffice.

 

*************

 

5 January  9.17am, text thread

 _Mary’s in theatre. Emergent caesarean. Still no word on baby_. – JW  
  
9.19am  
_John. You already know I believe in no deity to whom I could direct in any prayers, but I hope beyond all hope in the universe that your daughter will be alright._ – SH

 

*************

9.25am, Family Waiting Room

  
John’s waiting room chair is uncomfortable, like shoes a size too small. The telly is blaring some crap morning talk show and John’s mind feels anaesthetized, he hasn’t slept well in a couple nights, and he needs a shower, shave, and maybe a shit in the worst way.

If he’s completely honest with himself he couldn’t care less about Mary. If he’s _painfully_ honest, he never really loved her enough to marry her; she was good for him when they met, or so he’d thought at the time, but she wasn’t the great love of his life. Any shred of affection he’d retained, any hope for her redemption, had evaporated with the bullet that had almost killed Sherlock. The only person in hospital he gives a shit about right now is the tiny girl whom he has yet to meet, whose life is currently in someone else’s hands.

The neonatologist, a baby-faced forty-something strawberry blond who stands head and shoulders above John, enters the waiting area and though his features are kind his presence commands the room. John immediately snaps out of his own thoughts and glances toward the physician who held John’s daughter before her own father did.

“Mister Watson?” the physican calls.

“Yes sir.” John assumes parade rest. 

“I’m Dr. Smithson, I’m the attending neonatologist today and I’ve come to give you an update on your daughter. First, congratulations. She is beautiful.”

“Thank you. Her name is Rosalie. Rosie for short.” John relaxes if only a little.

“Second, I want you to know she is stable for the moment but her condition is very very critical. Your wife lost a great deal of blood before giving birth, which in turn severely compromised your daughter’s – _Rosie’s_ – heart, and kidneys. We don’t know exactly how long this went on in utero but in order to stabilise her blood pressure and heart rate we had to give her both fluids and blood via an IV we’ve placed in a vein in her umbilical vein. We hope to be able to make up for the blood she lost via her mother’s placenta prior to delivery.

"Right now she is on a ventilator. We are supporting her blood pressure with several medications in hopes that her kidneys will eventually recover from the blood loss and take over that function for themselves.

"The other thing I want you to know is that your daughter has anencephaly. What that means is that she was born without most of her brain. She has the lower portions of her brain – what we call the brainstem – that allow her to continue breathing, but most of the rest is not there. She is missing the parts that control her vision, emotions, thoughts, and movements.”

John reels under the weight of those words. As a physician he knows them but as a father it is too much. _Jesus Fucking_ _Christ Goddamn._ He hears the neonatologist’s words but internally he’s flailing for air underwater, weighted down, and unable to surface. John Watson can only deal with so much at once, and this is his breaking point. He collapses on the ground, hyperventilating, moaning a sort of primal, guttural sound the neonatologist has heard before when parents realize their child is going to die.

Dr. Smithson kneels down to meet John where he is but gives him space to vent. After about five minutes, John stills and meets Dr. Smithson’s eyes quickly before shifting his gaze back to the ground.

“Oh God, I’m so sorry. So sorry.”

_Get it together, Watson. Men don’t act like that._

Dr. Smithson reassures John that he is far from the first father to buckle in the knees at the burden of words dispensed by a stranger.  

“I believe you understand what I am saying,” Dr. Smithson continues, “but I want to state it explicitly. We don’t expect Rosie to live long; normally, babies born alive with anencephaly live anywhere from a few minutes to a few days. It is exceedingly rare that they live longer than that. We will help you as much as we can while she is with us. As her father, you are welcome to come and visit her anytime, and you or her mother can bring one support person of your choosing. Normally we do not do all the things we have done for Rosie when we are caring for a baby with anencephaly, but we felt it very important in this case to keep her alive until you could see her. We were able to place intravenous access through her umbilical vein instead of poking her skin, so we were able to avoid causing her pain.

“What I encourage you to do in the next few hours is take some time to process all this, and when you’re ready, visit her as much as you can. She is unable to see and hear at full capacity, but she will recognize your presence and that will be good for both of you. I know this is a lot to process right now. Do you have any questions?”

 _More questions than answers, that’s for bloody sure._   
“No. Not at the moment, no. Thank you, Doctor Smithson.”

 

*************

 

9.45am, Neonatal Intensive Care Unit, St. Mary’s Hospital, London

John Watson has never been more in love with another human being as he is the second his gaze falls upon his daughter who – _poor thing_ , John thinks – inherited his nose and chin. His heart no longer beats in his chest, no. His heart is lying here, venous line in her umbilical cord stump and a hand-crocheted hat covering her head where her brain should be. Despite the rather froglike appearance of this baby ( _this is often what babies with anencephaly look like_ , he remembers, then feels guilty for thinking she looks like a frog), he thinks she is the most beautiful child he’s ever seen.

His breath catches and God, how he wants to keep the stoic soldier face, but his daughter melts it out of him and his eyes spill over with years of unshed tears in front of all the nurses and the God he’s not sure he believes in.

 _“_ Mister Watson, you can touch her and talk to her if you want,” a gentle female voice says behind him.

He takes a seat offered him by the nurse and gingerly, like a flower he doesn’t want to bruise, John places his index finger inside his daughter’s tiny hand. When her fingers curl around his, John understands in that moment what kind of love brings grown men to their knees.

“Hello, Rosie, it’s me. Your dad. I’m crap at these things, but…..I want you to know my voice, if you can hear me, and I want you to know that I love you _.”_

John watches the monitor as his daughter’s heart rate goes from somewhere in the 180s range – too high, indicator of stress, hypovolemia, and sometimes shock – to the 140s, normal range. 

Time blurs into more time as John stays by the bedside of this impossibly tiny lovely creature. Bladders eventually fill, though, and after about four hours John has to take a leak. He heads out of the NICU to find the waiting room, which has toilets and more shit coffee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Linea nigra – a line often visible down the middle of a pregnant person’s abdomen. It’s several shades darker than the person’s baseline skin tone owing to hormonal changes of pregnancy.
> 
> 2) While some light bleeding mixed with mucus (called ‘bloody show) is normal during labor, profuse bright red blood, is an ominous sign and requires immediate intervention. In this case, an emergency caesarean section. 
> 
> 3) Abruptio placentae is just another way of saying placental abruption. Medical people slip in and out of Latin and Greek phraseology without realising. 
> 
> 4) In the case of a true emergency – what we’d call a stat or crash section – things really can happen that quickly, ten minutes or less from decision to incision. 
> 
> 5) I think the evidence points toward no prep being better than the so-called splash-and-slash (what a terrible term, really), but since this is supposed to be from 2015 I don’t think we had seen that evidence yet. I’m trying to keep out as many anachronisms as possible. 
> 
> 6) 6) I swear to God I had that collapse and moaning scene written well before T6T aired.


	3. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys are finally in the same room and saying words to one another!

5 January 2015, 14.02, St. Mary’s hospital waiting room

The obstetrician, a lean chin-stubbled salt-and-pepper man in his 60s with glasses too big for his face and who probably hasn’t brushed his hair yet that day, greets John grimly. John knows the look, has done this so many times. _Bad news._

“Mister Watson, I presume?” the physician greets him with a long sigh.

“Speaking,” John replies, shoulders squared at what he knows is coming. _Let’s just get this over with, please._

“I’m Doctor Bell, the obstetric surgeon. I have something to tell you, but I need you to be sitting down. Mr. Watson….your wife…..” the grizzled physician stumbles over his words.

“Whatever it is, just bloody tell me.” John is not in the mood for dancing around anything right now.

“Your wife….she is dead. We worked on her for hours, but she went into disseminated vascular coagulation, or DIC. What that means is that –“

John cuts him off. “I know what DIC is, I’m a bloody doctor, I fucking know - I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for talking like that.”

“No apology needed. I am so sorry, Doctor Watson. We poured as many units of blood, platelets, and plasma into her as quickly as we could….but….we could not save her. She is dead.” The physician, John thinks to himself, looks a few years younger now that he’s finally gotten the words out.

John Watson has dealt once with believing someone in his life was dead only to find out he was wrong. He wants the coldest hardest proof that Mary is gone. He wants to see her body, lying lifeless on the slab.

*************

5 January 2015, 14.08, St. Mary’s hospital morgue

Doctor Bell leads John down a maze of corridors and blinding lights, though John isn’t sure the lights are blinding him as much as the grey fucking fog in which he currently finds his brain. He recognizes her face, lips gone pale from blood loss, lifeless face gone even paler. Her crooked appendectomy scar, and the scars on both knees from too much football in uni. He feels nothing for her, no need to say goodbye.

“Definitely her,” John mumbles while looking at the ground, voice devoid of any emotion.

Doctor Bell lays a hand on John’s shoulder and tells him he doesn't have to decide anything about arrangements for her right away, but that the hospital will eventually want to know, the softness of his voice belying his gruff exterior. John comes very close to interrupting the physician but professional courtesy wins and he lets Doctor Bell finish his statement before responding.

“Frankly, Doctor – and it’s a very long story – I want nothing to do with her. Jt makes no difference to me what happens to her corpse. I’ll sign the papers, do whatever I have to do, but I don’t want anything to do with this woman any more. Hand me the papers now, if you would. Please.” John’s chin juts up and out at please. Almost defiant.

“Mister Watson, are you – are you sure about this?” The physician’s eyes widen and his voice cracks a little. He’s never met someone so assuredly apathetic about the death of a spouse.

“My daughter is upstairs in intensive care. She didn’t ask to be born into this shitty mess I have managed to make of all our lives by marrying the vile duplicitous bitch that lies dead in front of us. Now, if you would please hand me the GODDAMNED PAPERS, I will sign them and be rid of her.” Flecks of spittle fly out of John’s mouth and his face goes beet red as he continues. “I have a daughter upstairs in intensive care who needs me and I will not waste one more bloody second here.”

Doctor Bell stops, taken aback by the force behind John’s statement, and chooses not to further question the man in front of him, so obviously wounded by a story the obstetrician can only imagine. He introduces John to the morgue director, and together they make arrangements to cremate Mary’s remains. _Good riddance._ As far as John's concerned that bit is settled. Mary is _persona non grata_. He heads back upstairs to the intensive care unit to see Rosie. 

*************

5 January 2015 14.40, St. Mary’s hospital, Neonatal Intensive care unit

God, she is tiny. Just over two thousand grams at birth, about four and a half pounds. The nurses recognise John with sad smiles – news travels fast, they’ve heard about Mary – and they lead him back to Rosie’s bedside. There’s a chair already waiting.

_Rosie, it’s me again. So….I’ve managed to make a muckup of just about everything I’ve touched lately. I’m rubbish at life, it seems. I’ve been a rubbish friend and a rubbish husband. I’ve never been a dad before but I’ll do my best to not be rubbish at that too. I hope we can figure it out together. You are so tiny and fragile. These nurses are taking excellent care of you; I just hope I can too._

John is a man who keeps things bottled up, afraid to spill over, terrified of others’ reactions if they see his vulnerability. Years of an abusive alcoholic father taught him to keep to himself, the more unobtrusive the better. This, though, is the single most important thing John has ever done. _If I fuck up loving Rosie, nothing else I do will ever matter._ A nurse walks by and if she notices the heaving shoulders and silent tears in the low lights of intensive care, she understands that the man doesn’t want a third party lingering. She keeps moving.

 

15.48pm

John thinks he is dreaming when he feels a gentle touch on his arm, but no. It is the hand of the nurse who, having kept watch from afar, nudges him awake.

 _Wha?_ – John grimaces awake and isn’t sure what time it is or even if the day’s events have actually been real. The alarms of another baby's monitor jolt him in to the realisation that this all did in fact happen. 

“Mister Watson, you have been here most of the day. You are always welcome here, but you’ve had a right long day already and have fallen asleep here with baby Rosalie. It’s quite alright for you to go home to rest. Rosie needs you to be at your best, and you won’t be at your best if you don’t rest well and take care of yourself too. If you’ll give us your mobile number we will be able to call you with any changes or updates.”

With those words, the permission granted, the weight of a universe, weight John hadn’t realised he was carrying until then, falls off his shoulders. And in that second, it dawns on him that for now, he is not the physician who toils on no sleep to save others. He is just an exhausted new dad and he needs some sleep.

 _“_ Ah, right. I’m sorry, nurse. I didn’t mean to fall asleep here, it’s just _” –_ John hesitates _. –_ “Just that this last day and a half has been a beast and I’m knackered. Probably best if I go home for a bit. Do call me if Rosie needs anything, though.” 

_I need her as much as she needs me. Maybe more,_ he thinks to himself.

  
Thirty-seven minutes after leaving Rosie’s bedside, John stumbles into the flat he once shared with the woman whose lifeless body is set to be cremated at some point. He’ll get a copy of her death certificate for the legalities that will have to be addressed but they won’t return her ashes; John doesn’t want them.

The flat is bone-deep frigid. Whether it’s the loveless marriage that once dwelt here or the grey London January, John isn’t sure. What he is sure about is that there is post on the table addressed to him, but this is not his home.  
*************

16.31, text thread  
_Sherlock, a lot has happened and I need to tell you about it. But right now I am so exhausted I can’t see straight. I just want you to know I’m still around. Just going to have a nap. Can I text you when I wake up_? _– JW_  
  
16.33pm  
_Of course. I’m relieved to hear from you, John. I said I would be here for anything you need, so yes. Text me when you’re awake. Rest well. – SH_

John reads the last text and something akin to – John’s not sure what it’s akin to, actually – something spreads in his chest. The last thing he thinks before sleep overtakes him is that his wife is dead and his daughter is dying, and he should feel alone in the world, but he doesn’t. Thank the God he doesn’t believe in, he does not feel alone.  
  
*************

5 January 2015, 21.47pm, text thread  
No missed calls from the hospital. I _guess that’s good news?_

_Sherlock, it's me. I'm awake now. I need to talk to you. If you're around, that is. - JW_

21.49pm  
_John, what do you take me for? I said I would be around. I am here. Shall I come to you or do you want to come to Baker St? – SH_  
  
21.51pm  
_You know what, I’ll come to Baker St. Nothing for me here. Be there in under an hour. – JW_

21.52pm  
_Kettle’s on. – SH_  
  
[Unsent]  
Do you know how much I’ve missed you?

*************

Sherlock rushes a bit to tidy up the flat, reminiscent of their first meeting, when he’d shuffled a few papers around and called it good.

Thank goodness John’s chair is still where it has been for a while now.

From the window Sherlock sees the cab pull up and is down the stairs and has the door to 221B open before John can retrieve his meagre belongings, pay his fare, and step away from the kerb. Sherlock can’t quite put it into words, but John has aged a decade in a day, and Sherlock fights to regain his composure.

“John. Welcome home.” 

*************

22.43pm  
John shuffles up the stairs, his couple small suitcases and coat in hand, that being all he deemed worth taking from the freezing somber flat. _Sod the rest_.

John drops his bag and flops down on the sofa. _This is what I need. Like water, like air, like home._

Neither man says anything at first. Sherlock, unable to stand the silence, offers him a cup of tea. “John, I -….I put the kettle on, like I said.”

“Ta, that would be nice.

“Listen, Sherlock. I don’t even know where to start.” John inhales and exhales, puffing out his cheeks on the exhale. “Mary’s gone.”

“Gone? Where?”

“No, Sherlock. Gone as in dead. Bled to death in theatre after four hours of trying to save her.”

Sherlock’s eyes grow wide and he sits on the sofa next to John, not touching but close enough that he could if he dared. 

"I am sorry, John." 

“Don’t be. I signed the papers, she is being cremated and I’ve refused her ashes. I don’t really want to think about her more than I have to. It’s long and complicated and you know that, but suffice it to say that more than anything I’m glad she’s gone.”

Sherlock tightens his lips, looks at the floor, and blinks several times before catching John’s gaze again. “And the baby?”

“The baby. Rosalie Margaret.” John half-smiles whilst he fills in an unasked detail.

“Rosie.” Sherlock wraps the name around his tongue, trying it out, the faintest smile playing around his lips and eyes misting over. “Your daughter.” 

“Rosie is alive. Just over four and a half pounds. She is- oh God, Sherlock. She is so lovely.”

Sherlock hesitates a bit. “Is she….alright?”

John exhales loudly, cracks his knuckles, and rubs a hand over his stubble. “Yes and no. She’s stable for the moment. Mary lost a lot of blood before she died and it affected Rosie’s heart and kidneys, but they were able to give her fluids and meds to help compensate. But she-……..she has-“ John’s voice cracks, “……she has anencephaly.”

Sherlock gasps and stutters. _Oh_. He asks the only thing he knows to ask. “Do you….do you have a picture?”

John pulls out his phone and scrolls through the photos to show Sherlock a photo he’d snapped earlier before he fell asleep at Rosie’s bedside.

“Oh.” Sherlock’s breath catches in his throat and he can’t manage another word. He brings the back of his hand to his mouth. Despite the fact that her face is not the same shape as most other babies’, despite the lack of a skull to form her head, Sherlock is taken aback by her beauty. _She has your nose, John._

“They have told me I can bring one other person with me to come visit her.” John volunteers.

“I am sure Mrs. Hudson would love to see her,” Sherlock supplies, trying to be helpful.

“Sherlock, that wasn’t what I meant. Do you want to come and see her?”

Sherlock stares blankly for a few seconds, then queries incredulously, “You….are inviting me? You are saying you want me there _with you_ when you visit your daughter?”

John stares at Sherlock. _He still can't believe that I want him in my life._ “Yeah, of course. Course I want you there. I wouldn’t want anyone else. I need some more sleep and you do too, but the next time we go see Rosie, you're coming with me, are we clear on that?" 

Sherlock smiles softly. "Indeed we are." 

 


	4. Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some bittersweet fluff in the midst of all the whump.

6 January 2015, 00.01, Baker Street

  
John places a call to the St. Mary’s NICU to check on Rosie. Still stable. He steps into the shower and lets the hot water spill over him and into the drain, taking with it the sins and curses and unnamed fears of the last twenty-four hours. His first hot shower after getting off the bird from Kandahar didn’t feel as good as this. He shaves and changes into clean pyjamas, then crawls into his old upstairs bed. Sleep overtakes him before he’s horizontal.

01.12  
Sherlock sinks into his bed in and sleeps, truly sleeps, for the first time since before John’s wedding. _He is home._

08.35

John startles awake and heads down to the kitchen to find Sherlock fully dressed and sitting at the table, hands steepled, ostensibly in deep thought over something. A cup of tea and two pieces of toast sit across the table from him.

“You need to eat,” rumbles the baritone without moving, jiggling John’s thoughts from left field and into the present.

“You remembered how I take my tea.”

“Some data are worth remembering.” Sherlock’s eyes and lips dance in the early morning sunlight cast through the open curtains.

*************

6 January 2015, 09.37, St. Mary’s Hospital

   
Sherlock and John step out of the cab and head into St. Mary’s, unconsciously synchronising their steps. Thankfully they are alone in the lift. John has only had slightly more than a day to memorise the NICU’s location, but he feels as though knows this hospital like he knows his pockets.

They arrive at the NICU, do the requisite three-minute handscrub, and the same nurse that sent John home yesterday is here today. “Mr. Watson, so good to see you again, Rosie will be glad you’re here.” Normally he’d write that kind of statement off as bollocks – _she’s a baby, for God’s sake_ \- but after seeing Rosie’s vital signs normalise yesterday at the sound and feel of him, he tucks the nurse’s words into his heart and leaves them there.

While John’s distracted talking with the nurse, Sherlock has already moved on and found Rosie’s isolette. Thankfully there is only one Watson, Baby Girl in the NICU at the moment. If Rosie is altogether lovely on her own, the sight of Sherlock bent down eye-level by her isolette, gazing at her and whispering things John can’t hear, well….he knows. He has never said it out loud to anyone, but he knows. 

If he’s honest, he has known long before now but could not admit it, even to himself. For a time, part of it was survival. He’d had to keep up appearances with Mary. _But Sherlock doesn't feel things that way, does he?_

He inches his way closer, not wanting to spoil the moment for Sherlock nor for Rosie, whose heart rate and pulse oximetry are beautifully normal. He stands just behind Sherlock, who, John realizes, is singing her a French lullaby. John’s heart drops to his feet at the rich baritone that’s just loud enough to make it through the isolette walls, even though they both know Rosie can’t hear.   
                              _Tout le monde est sage_  
                              Dans le voisinage  
                              Il est l’heure d’aller dormir  
                              Le sommeil va bientôt venir.

Sherlock turns to see John and a look of horror crosses his visage. “John! I am sorry! I am – oh God, I hope I have not overstepped my boundaries, I just thought she might like a song to he-“

“Sherlock, stop there,” John responds _sotto voce_ , putting his hand up palm facing outward in a sort of universal _stop_ gesture, then points up to the monitor screen  “She loves it. Look at her pulse. It’s in the one-twenties, lower than I’ve ever seen it be. You calmed her down. Your voice, Sherlock, your presence did that.”

Sherlock glances down at sleeping Rosie and casts a sideways glance at the nurse on the other side of the isolette, who nods her assent with John’s statement. The faintest of smiles creeps into Sherlock’s countenance and his shoulders visibly relax.

“John, she is…she looks so much like you. No wonder you wanted me here so you could show her off.”

The two men stand next to Rosie, still sleeping in her isolette. Within a few minutes the same neonatologist from yesterday, Doctor Smithson, drops by on rounds and offers John his hand.

“Hello again, Mister Watson. And this is?” he glances at Sherlock.

“Sherlock Holmes,” responds Sherlock, offering the physician his hand.

“Mister Watson, Mister Holmes….little Rosie is doing about as well as we expect at this point. There are some serious discussions we need to have in the fairly-near future, but right now I want you to visit your daughter and let her know you love her. She is simply beautiful, your little one.”

 _John Watson’s flesh and blood would be nothing if not beautiful_ , Sherlock muses internally.

As the physician turns to leave, a voice calls. “Doctor, what about kangaroo care?” Sherlock inquires. “I did some research overnight and found that kangaroo care is good for both babies and their parents. John would like that.”

_I’ve not said a bloody word about that, you numpty._

_But oh God, you’re right. You’re abso-bloody-lutely right._

“Well….of course. I don’t see why not. Babies and their parents benefit so much from kangarooing. I’ll get Rosie’s nurse so she can make sure any other bit of Rosie’s care is complete so you can have uninterrupted skin to skin time.” Rosie’s nurse peeks her head around the corner where she is attending another baby at the moment and asks them to give her a few minutes and she'll be right there. 

*************

John’s heart is pounding out of his chest; he is so uncertain of what to expect, but the thought of holding his own daughter for the first time – a person who previously did not exist – almost overwhelms him. He goes to the loo and grabs some water in order to be able to sit with Rosie for at least an hour like the nurse wants him to. John – having not prepared for this beforehand – has to take off his button-down and undershirt so that Rosie can lay on his bare chest, but puts his button-down back on again so as not to freeze.

The nurse – Rebecca, her name badge reads – hands Rosie to John while Rebecca gathers all the lines and tubing attached to Rosie in order to transfer it all smoothly from the isolette to John’s arms. She has John lean back in a reclining chair someone has kindly brought to the bedside. Together they bring Rosie to John’s bare chest, taking care not to disrupt the IV in her umbilical vein as the nurse lays Rosie on her father’s chest. She is lying on her side looking up at her father so her exposed brain does not touch John’s skin and so the umbilical intravenous line is not compromised.

John’s physician brain knows Rosie cannot see or hear owing to the missing parts of her brain vital to those functions. He has a father’s heart, though, and gazes at her and tells her what she means to him. He has fallen hard. Deeply. Madly. In love with this little girl whose tiny fingers struggle to wrap around his.  They stay that way for well more than the hour the nurse had originally asked of John.

Sherlock, awed, cannot take his eyes off either of them.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Lots of hospital units where babies are involved require a 3-minute hand scrub, just like you see in the movies before a surgeon operates. A NICU has lots of babies with nonexistent/immature immune systems, so this is to try and protect those babies. Everyone who enters the unit – parents and staff alike – are required to clean their hands and arms up to their elbows to help protect the tiny patients from infections. 
> 
> 2) Medical terms are definitely becoming more mainstream with the internet available to more and more people, so I don’t always feel the need to explain every single detail. But put simply, pulse oximetry (or pulse ox) is a quick and noninvasive measure of how well the oxygen-rich blood is being carried to all the tissues in the body. In adults, it’s usually a sensor on a finger, toe, or more rarely, an earlobe. In tiny babies, it’s wrapped around a hand, wrist, or foot. For healthy children and adults, 95% and higher is considered normal. Sometimes in a NICU setting, though, too much oxygen can damage a baby’s delicate tissues and cause long-term problems such as blindness so there is such a thing as too high (especially with premature babies). In this case, given Rosie’s short life expectancy, that is not going to be a concern. If a baby is in distress of any kind, pulse ox can be lower than normal; when the distress resolves, or the baby is feeling super-calm/chilled out, the pulse ox improves to a better percentage.
> 
> 3) Sherlock’s singing Rosie a French lullaby: “Everyone in town knows/it is time to go to sleep/you’ll be asleep soon” (if you’re a native French speaker and have a better translation please let me know – I used Google translate, and while it makes sense to me, there may be a better way to say it. I welcome your help!) 
> 
> 4) Kangaroo or ‘skin to skin’ care is THE COOLEST THING EVER. It’s called kangarooing because it sort of mimics the way mother kangaroos hold their joeys close to their bodies for warmth and stability while they grow and eat. In hospitals in parts of the world where isolettes and warmers are not readily available, tiny babies are held close to their mother or other relative so they don't spend energy trying to keep themselves warm, and they can use that energy to grow! Healthy stable babies should go skin-to-skin as soon after birth as possible and should stay there for a while - it eases the transition from inside a uterus to outside. In a NICU setting, as soon as baby is stable, kangarooing is encouraged because there have been numerous studies demonstrating that babies who kangaroo with their parents are calmer, sleep better, grow more quickly, have better cognitive development, and just all-around do better than babies who don’t. It’s good for parents, too! Parents are able to participate more in their babies’ care, and it promotes all the neurochemicals/hormones of bonding, so it’s just a great thing to be able to do when possible. It’s possible a lot more than people realize, even with tubes and IV lines and stuff, just depends on the baby. 
> 
> As we’ve already addressed in the story, Rosie is very very sick, but in a case like hers, they’d probably say, we’re less worried about her IV line staying in, and more worried about her father getting a chance to hold her while she’s still alive, because we don’t know how long that will be.


	5. Crossroads

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock visit Rosie again. There is an extremely difficult discussion to be had and John has to make a decision no parent should ever have to make.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If discussion of end-of-life care bothers you, or if the thought of having this discussion about a baby bothers you, feel free to skip. If you believe it is unfair that this sort of thing happens, I completely agree with you. If I ran the world it never would.

6 January, 2015 17.58pm

John and Sherlock return to St. Mary’s that afternoon, having eaten and rested a bit. Rosie’s condition is unchanged from before, but John had promised Doctor Smithson that he would return to address the issues left unresolved when John and Sherlock had left earlier. Over lunch the two men have discussed banalities – weather, cases, and Mrs. Hudson’s cooking. Both know that the day is going to be arduous, and anything more at the time is simply too much.

But John knows. Sherlock knows. _We are dancing around something we very much need to discuss._

John is zipping his jacket when Sherlock looks up from the sofa, the question in his eyes before it leaves his mouth. “Do you want me to go back to hospital with you, John?”

“Of course I do; you’re my best friend and right now the person helping me keep my head on my shoulders.” _There’s something you’re not telling me._

Sherlock shuffles in the doorway of the flat, suit jacket in hand, obviously uneasy. “John…I-…I’m not sure the best way to ask you this.” _You’ll think this is stupid, call me an idiot._

“Out with it already, I’d like to get to my daughter sometime today,” John responds, half chuckling and half frustrated.

“Well, it’s just that….how you held Rosie earlier, the kangaroo care? Do you think they’d let me do it too?”

John stops dead in his tracks and turns to face Sherlock, eyes wide and fixed on his friend.

A pindrop would’ve been louder for the silence that engulfs the flat for a few seconds before John responds. “You….want to hold my daughter? Skin to skin?” John is incredulous. “Was _that_ what you were anxious about?”

Sherlock bites his lip _god that lip_ , gives John a sheepish smile, and nods.

Sherlock braces for John's response.

“Of course they’ll let you if I say it’s okay….and I say it’s okay. Remind me when we get there to ask. Not like you’re going to let me forget.”

They ride to the hospital in companionable silence in the cab, each bracing himself internally.   
*************

6 January 2015, 18.47

Exactly forty-five minutes later, Sherlock is reclined shirtless in the same chair John had sat in earlier, cuddling Rosie under a warm blanket like that’s all he was born to do. John whips out his phone to record and take pictures, as much to relive the warmth in his chest later at the beauty of his daughter and his best friend snuggled together as to prove to Lestrade that Sherlock Holmes had successfully held a newborn. If he thinks a few thoughts about how undeniably gorgeous Sherlock is in the process, he keeps them to himself but does not deny their presence.

John leaves to go to the loo and grab a cup of tea at the café downstairs. On the way back up to intensive care he gets stopped in the hallway and chatted up by the nurse who has been caring for Rosie since her admission to the unit. He is about to round the corner to Rosie’s bedspace when he hears Sherlock talking softly to her.

_“….and you can search the world over, there will be no better father for you than the one you have. I never…..in a thousand lifetimes would have dreamt I’d meet someone like him. Not only is he an excellent marksman, but he is kind and generous and brave….and my God, is he beautiful. There, Rosie, I said it. I had never imagined myself loving someone. I never saw the need, and no one measured up to the standards I had set for myself until I met your father. I am not sure I will ever again love anyone like I have loved him, and I’m not sure I’ll ever stop.  A lovely little girl like you deserves nothing but the best father the universe can grant her. Luck isn’t real, but you are a lucky little girl, Rosie, because John Watson loves you.”_

John’s heart begins to race and his jaw clenches. _Sherlock Holmes loves him back. For how long? Why did I not see this before? John Hamish Fucking Watson, you idiot._

A noisy NICU and the bedside of a sick baby is not the place to sort it, so John stays where he is for a few minutes, taking multiple deep breaths and clenching and unclenching his fists as much to rein in his own catecholamines as to not bollocks this up with Sherlock.  

When he takes the final steps around the corner, he finds Sherlock’s lips pressed to Rosie’s little hand wrapped around his index finger. Eyes wide with wonder, Sherlock pronounces, “Look, John. I know it’s a primitive newborn reflex, and I know she can’t see me, but it’s like she knows who I am.”

 _Sherlock Holmes, you are a natural_ , he thinks. _High-functioning sociopath my arse_. What he says is, “Of course she knows that you’re someone who loves her, that much is obvious.” He whips out his camera phone again to capture the moment forever in pixels.

Doctor Smithson appears around the corner, dims the lights, and asks the men to put away their phones for a few minutes. After John assures the physician that no more family will be joining them for the conversation – _this is a family matter, and that’s why Sherlock_ _stays_ – Doctor Smithson sits down with John and Sherlock and takes a deep breath.

“This is going to be a very difficult conversation, but it’s important that we have it now rather than later. I am going to be as direct as I can with you, because I believe in telling the truth, and I want you both to feel like you can be direct with me in return. 

“As you both know, your sweet Rosie has anencephaly, which in her case means she is missing the upper parts of her skull and brain. Normally when a baby has anencephaly, we would never have done all the things we did at delivery to resuscitate her; we would have kept her comfortable but we wouldn’t have taken extraordinary measures.  We’d have allowed nature to take its course while Rosie stayed in your arms. The reason we did what we did was to allow you to see her alive because you were not able to be present at her birth, since her mother was in theatre under general anaesthesia.

“However, we do not believe it will be in her best interest to keep giving her all the blood pressure medications – the vasopressors - we’re giving her via the IV line in her umbilical vein, in her belly button. Anencephaly is not a condition that is considered compatible with life. We can’t predict exactly how long Rosie will live without all the things we’re doing to keep her alive; some children live just a few minutes and some live several weeks. But we are one hundred percent certain that without them she will die.

“The thing is, if we keep doing all these things, giving her the medications and IV fluids, she will have to stay here in intensive care hooked up to machinery, and eventually she will still die anyway. She will just spend more time suffering in the process.”

The physician stops to allow both men, who have not moved an inch since he started talking, a few moments to process the information. Sherlock is still holding Rosie on his bare chest and instinctively holds her more closely, cradling his arms around her as if to protect her from the physician’s words.

“What I am saying is, I think it is time for you to consider allowing us to remove all of Rosie’s life support and focus on keeping her comfortable until she passes away. Of the two options we have, I believe this is the kinder one.”

Sherlock’s eyes well up with tears, and John’s betray him as well, despite his determination to keep his lips pressed into a thin line and take care of business with the stoicism that had served him well in Kandahar.

The physician continues, “We will still be present in Rosie’s care, we will do everything we can to help her remain comfortable, and we welcome any ideas you have as well. No one will force anything upon you, but we welcome you to be here with her as much as you possibly can so that her final weeks, days, or hours – we can’t predict how long, exactly – are filled with the presence of people who love her. We have found that parents also benefit from this, because you are able to make memories with your child that you can carry with you forever.

“Do you all have any questions?”

Sherlock has two. “What exactly will you do to help her stay comfortable? What sorts of options do we have?”

“Excellent questions. For starters, all babies are kept warm in utero, and anything we can do to recreate the uterine environment will, we believe, help Rosie feel more comfortable. We can use heated blankets to help her stay warm, we can swaddle her if you want us to so that she feels secure, and we will not do any more procedures to her. No more poking, prodding, and definitely zero needles. If she displays signs of pain, or if it looks like she is working hard to breathe, we can give her a small dose of oral morphine to ease both the pain and the work of breathing. Of course, the best source of comfort will be for her to be held and loved by her family. She can stay skin to skin, just like she is with you now, Mister Holmes, for as long as you and her father want. In any case, she will sense your presence when you are close to her, so we encourage unlimited family presence.”

The answer seems to satisfy Sherlock. Owing to his medical background, John has no questions, and if he does, he is too emotionally wrung out, bone-deep exhausted, to know what to ask right now.

John asks the physician to give them some time alone with Rosie.

*************

John rubs his eyes and grits out _sotto voce, “_ I knew this would happen. I knew it was coming. She is going to die, Sherlock, and it is going to be soon. And I don’t know what the hell to do about it or how to feel.”

“John. There is no doubt in anyone's mind that you love Rosie, and whatever decision you make, you will make out of love for her. I will support you whatever you decide.”

Sherlock doesn’t bother to hide the tears that flow freely down his face between spoken words. He knew this would eventually occur too, but living it is exponentially more difficult than thinking about it. Rosie is content to be in his arms and snuggled against his bare chest, thankfully unaware of the anticipatory grief of the men who love her.

They have no one to turn to. No seer to guide them, there is no map marking the path they must take, and without words, each knows what is going to happen, _what has to happen_ for the sake of the tiny girl asleep in Sherlock’s arms. They weep silently for several minutes.

“I’ll go find a nurse or doctor.” John wipes the tears from his eyes, squares his shoulders, and sets off on a mission.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As has been addressed in the story, under normal circumstances, a baby with anencephaly would not be resuscitated at all. The medical team would wrap the baby in warm blankets and encourage family bonding and presence but would not do anything extraordinary to keep them alive. They’d call it comfort care. Warmth, family presence, gentle lighting, and gentle care, until the baby is no longer alive. Circumstances of this story are extreme, though, and I’m asking you to stick with me. I have seen a few cases where they’ll keep a baby alive just long enough so that their parents can see their baby alive and hold them for a few minutes, and so that the parents, not medical people, can be the ones to hold them in their final moments. This is an incredibly profound thing to witness, if also incredibly heartbreaking.


	6. Embrace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lots of talking and sweetness. They're going to need it. There's a lot to deal with soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song lyrics are from U2's album 'Achtung Baby', and from the first time I started thinking about Sherlock's background, those lyrics have stuck in my head. They remind me so much of him, because I am certain he has done a lot of all three.

_"You've been living underground, eating from a can_  
_You've been running away from what you don't understand."_     - "Mysterious Ways", U2

 

*************

6 January 2015, 22.28

They stumble into Baker Street dead on their feet, emotionally drained at the day’s events, but there are things they must confront before they go back to the hospital, where they know they will be asked to say goodbye to Rosie. John has asked the doctors and nurses to give them a night for them to come to terms with it. Grieving on a night of rest will undoubtedly be slightly easier.

Shoes and all the winter accoutrements come off. John puts the kettle on while Sherlock retrieves the mugs and bags from the cupboard, and once the tea is ready each takes a spot at one end of the sofa. Muscles ache and bones creak, uninvited reminders to both men that they’ve reached middle age. Unable to handle the pregnant silence between them, John turns to face Sherlock.

“Sherlock, I think we have a few things we need to sort out. There are some things I need to know and some things I need you to know.”

Sherlock withdraws into himself and does not turn to face John. Instead, he sits his mug of tea on the floor and looks away from John. _Stupid Sherlock, you knew this happiness wouldn’t last, you knew this bit was coming. Leave before he can leave you_.

“I have to go, John. Something has come up.” Sherlock jumps up, half-does his scarf, throws on his coat, and is out the door of the flat. John hears the tap-tap-tap of his feet down the stairs before his brain registers what’s going on. Once he realises that Sherlock is gone, John is out the door and down the stairs in sock feet.

“Sherlock, where the hell are you going?” John chases him down the stairs and out the door onto the pavement. “I said….where the HELL do you think you’re going?” John yells at Sherlock, whose hands are in his coat pockets as he faces Baker Street.

“I’m going out,” Sherlock declares, still looking away. “I know what you’re about to say, and frankly I’d rather save us all the trouble and just leave now.”

“Sherlock, what is this? Tell me, because I have no idea what you’re talking about.” John grabs Sherlock by the biceps and forces him to make eye contact.

“You’re moving out again once Rosie dies, John. I knew it, I should have seen it coming,” Sherlock pronounces quietly.

John’s jaw drops before he quickly regains composure and responds rather forcefully, “Sherlock! First, I’m not going ANYWHERE! Second, I don’t have on a jacket, neither of us is wearing shoes, and it’s colder than a witch’s tit. We look like bloody idiots yelling out here on the pavement in the middle of winter, I’m sure all of Westminster thinks we’ve lost our minds. Back inside.”

Sherlock stands frozen, literally and figuratively, on the pavement. He blinks several times before he is able to process John’s words to completion.

They both make a quarter turn and reenter the flat, made significantly easier by the fact that John hadn’t bothered to close the front door. Sherlock first, John following, back inside.  


Coats and scarves – well, Sherlock’s coat and scarf – are replaced. John guides Sherlock to the sofa and plops him there, then takes a seat on the opposite end. Their toes are icicles but they ignore them in favor of engaging in much-needed dialogue.

John takes a deep breath and lays his hands out in a peace offering. “Ok, let’s try this again. We need to talk. You and me. Both of us. Because I am pretty certain there are things you need to tell me and I know there are things I need to tell you.

“For starters, I am not going anywhere. I don’t know if you remember what I just said out on the pavement, but I’m not. I’m staying, Sherlock. I just bloody got here and I am not leaving.

“The second thing I need you to know is that earlier today while we were visiting Rosie, I got held back talking to one of the nurses and as I came back round the corner you were sat whispering to Rosie.”

“John, I’m sorry, I didn’t think it would be a problem for me to talk to he-“

“Sherlock, let me finish, please. You were talking to Rosie so tenderly. What you don’t know is that I overheard what you said to her. I heard you talking and didn’t want to disturb the moment for you, so I waited. And what you said. About….me. I heard you.” Johns hand clenches and unclenches.

Sherlock is trembling. “John, I-“

“And I want you to know. Jesus, I am so crap at this. I want you to know that you....I…feel the same way about you.”

“I’m sorry, what?” Sherlock cocks his head to one side and blinks several times, fidgeting with the pen he’d found in his shirt pocket with the left hand that has taken on a mind of its own.

“Yes, Sherlock. Let me get this all out now, because I have finally worked up the nerve and we’ve gone too long without saying these things, and I don’t want to waste another moment and not say it. I….love you. I have never loved anyone the way I love you. From the moment I saw you I thought you were the most beautiful being I’d ever laid eyes on. Like you were from another universe, you were so spectacularly gorgeous. And when you deduced my life story, I was captivated by your brilliance.

“It didn’t take me long to realise that not only did I think you were gorgeous and the smartest bloody person I’d ever met, I realised that you completed me. You made me want to be better and do better, and you cured my bloody leg. It was like we were two halves of a whole. Not only did you complete me, and not only was I arse over tits for you, I realised that I _wanted_ you. I thought you didn’t feel things that way, that you were married to your work. You said it once and I believed you.

“So my mind was made up to be close to you in any way I could, and if that meant chasing serial killers and hallucinating in a lab and watching my best friend - the person who meant more to me than anything else in the world, the one person I loved – jump to his death, then I made up my mind to be content with that. 

“Then, after you died, it was like…..like I had died too. My heart was broken, just shattered. I tried to be happy and just….couldn’t. There was nothing for me here at Baker Street because you were gone, so I moved out. I couldn’t be here with everything that reminded me of you. I tried to live, but living felt harder than dying. I saw you every time someone with dark hair and a long coat passed me by on the street. I heard your voice in my head every waking minute.

“When Mary came along, she gave me the tiniest glimmer of hope. I don’t really want to think about her at the moment, but I owe you an explanation. She made me think maybe, just maybe there was something worth getting up in the morning for. But she wasn’t you, Sherlock. She never could have been. All the things that attracted me to her were things that reminded me of you: she was funny, she could be cheeky, and she was smart. God, was she smart. But in a million lifetimes she’d never have meant to me what you did.

“When you came back, the only thing I wanted was to wrap my arms around you and never let go. But I couldn’t very well do that in the restaurant about to propose to _her_ , could I? I was absolutely shattered. So I took it out on you with my fists, and I’m so sorry, Sherlock. God, I’m sorry for being such a dick.

“I stayed shattered. I had to pretend. That I was happy with Mary. That I was thrilled to be married. That her pregnancy was good news. My nightmares came back. I couldn’t sleep in the same bed with her and not think of you. It has all been a charade.

“I have wanted nothing to do with Mary for a long time, but when she shot you, that sealed the deal. Any chance that I’d have loved her in any way went out the window that night. I lost you once when you jumped, and when I thought I’d lost you again after she shot you, I just….I couldn’t forgive her. No bloody way.

“The only reason I married Mary in the first place was that I didn’t think you felt things that way. So you have to understand, Sherlock, I have been in love with you for a very long time now.

“And when I heard you say those things to Rosie today, it took everything I had not to run to you and grab you by the face and kiss the life out of you and tell you that I’ve loved you almost from the moment I laid eyes on you.”

John doesn’t realise it but he has been staring at the floor all this time. His gaze moves toward Sherlock, who is on the sofa beside him trembling, shoulders heaving, making neither the slightest noise nor the slightest effort to contain the tears spilling down his cheeks.

“John.” It’s all Sherlock can manage. _John, my brain is full of you, John._

“That was the nicest, most beautiful thing anyone has ever said to me, John. There is so much I now realise I need to tell you, but right now I can’t. I – the words, they are in my brain but I- they won’t come out of my mouth. I will tell you, John. I will. Right now….can we just…be together, the two of us? Close?”

Sherlock turns his gaze toward John on the sofa, his vision blurry through tears, and sees John as he must’ve been at twenty. Gone are the worry wrinkles, the furrowed brow, the lines around John’s eyes that aged him unfairly. John’s ocean-blue eyes sparkle and he smiles the smile of a man given a third second chance.

“Sherlock, there are always two of us. And the answer is yes. Of course, we can be together. As close as you want.”

“Would you….would you sleep with me in my bed tonight?”

“Bloody hell, I thought you’d never ask.”

 

*************

The two men shower and change into their pyjamas, and John brings his pillow down from the second bedroom.

“Sherlock, I don’t want this to be uncomfortable for you.”

“I wouldn’t have asked you to sleep here if it were uncomfortable. Please. You have no idea how long I’ve thought about having you here beside me in the dark.”

John knows beyond all doubt that he is home. Come what may, Baker Street is where he knows he is most at ease.  

Today has taken so much from them mentally that physical exhaustion isn’t far behind, and they find themselves in the middle of the bed glued together. Facing one another, arms wrapped around torsos, Sherlock’s face buried in John’s collarbone, John’s nose and mouth positioned perfectly to inhale the scent of Sherlock’s curls all night. They fall asleep tangled and when they awake they find neither man has moved, as if their bodies know all the same things as their hearts, whether their mouths can speak them or not.

 

*************

7 January 2015, 08.43

 “Morning, beautiful,” John whispers.

Sherlock’s body is warm and soft and everything John thinks home should be. John pulls his head back to get a good gander at Sherlock’s boyish sleeping face, thinking _this must be what he looks like when he’s not got the weight of the world on him._

“John.” Sherlock responds rather abruptly though not unpleasantly, as he squints while opening his eyes. _He must’ve known I was watching him_ , John thinks. “I am ready to talk now.”

 _Leave it to Sherlock Holmes to figure out this shit in his sleep and wake up ready to talk,_ John thinks fondly. 

Sherlock gently untangles his limbs from John, allowing both men to sit up just a little in the bed. He rearranges himself so that he is lying with his head on John’s chest, John’s left arm wrapped around Sherlock’s torso and lying flat against his chest directly above his heart.  

“I have had some time to process what you said to me last night and while I may still be unable to articulate things exactly, I feel I owe it to you to respond to what are without a doubt the kindest words anyone has ever said to me. Especially before we deal with the enormity of what lies ahead of us today.  
  
“When we met that day at Bart’s those many years ago, you captivated me like no one else ever has. I saw you and I knew that my life would be irrevocably changed. But I had grown so accustomed to being alone, I had no reference point for what I felt anymore.

“Until that point no one had ever wanted anything to do with me. Apart from Mycroft – such as he is – no one gave me even the time of day. When I told you that people generally said ‘piss off’ I wasn’t exaggerating. I grew used to being labelled a freak, a bastard, a faggot, whatever insult was popular that week.

“When you told me my deduction about Harry’s phone was amazing and fantastic, I knew you I never wanted to let you go. You stepped in where everyone else had rejected me and with those two words healed wounds created by others gone before you. Others at grade school, secondary, uni, the drug dens, and Scotland Yard. You have no idea, John. I know you are a doctor and that is considered one of the healing arts, but I think you’ve sorely underestimated your ability to heal just by your presence.

“I was clean when we met but the cravings were still so difficult to manage. After you moved in, they diminished almost overnight. The rush I had previously only been able to obtain with a needle in my veins I found with you sitting next to me in the kitchen, which both terrified and thrilled me. I had never before, nor have I since, realised that it was possible to feel that way about another living human.

“Jim Moriarty knew this. The night I met him at the swimming pool and found you trapped in enough explosives to do in half of London ought to be proof of that. When you offered to die and told me to run, I had no idea how to process that. No one had ever volunteered to give their own life to save mine before.

“The night I came back from Serbia I walked into the restaurant and you literally took my breath away. I was wholly unprepared to realize that you might have moved on to someone else despite the as yet platonic nature of our relationship. Truth be told I’d rather have been whipped a thousand times more than see the ring in the box and the knowledge that you were about to promise yourself to someone else. The wounds on my back that night were nothing compared with my heart being rent in two.”

It is only here that John interrupts.

“Wait, what, Sherlock? Wounds. On. Your. Back?”

Sherlock sits up, as if the gravity of his response warrants a direct gaze. “Yes, John. The night I showed up at The Landmark I had only been pulled out of a cell in Serbia hours earlier. The wounds were still fresh.”

It is John’s turn to tremble. No words come. It is as if every dam on earth has burst behind John’s eyeballs and no force in heaven or hell can abate the free flow of tears.

They sit this way for several minutes, John quaking and Sherlock watching, unsure how to manage either of their emotions. He wishes with all his heart he knew the right thing to do or say that would comfort John’s guilt over something for which he has long been forgiven.

Eyes wet, John manages to get out, “You had……fresh wounds. I’m so sorry. I should have taken you in my arms right then, and kissed you until you couldn’t breathe, but I slammed you on the ground, onto fresh wounds. I’m so sorry. Oh God, Sherlock-“ John collapses into more tears. Now that the dam has burst it seems unending.

In the end it is Sherlock who, for the first time in his adult life, tenderly wraps his arms around another man. _So this is what it feels like._   _God, what an idiot I have been to prioritise the work._ The bedroom curtains are open and the sunlight peeks through the window panes but Sherlock is sure the warmth is from within as he holds John’s face close to his own heart, John’s fresh tears hot against his skin. He wants to preserve this moment forever on a slide for later microanalysis, but he isn’t finished talking, and he knows there is at least one more thing he needs to tell John. 

“John, I have long forgiven you. At that point I was grateful that you were touching me. I wanted you to stay with me in Baker Street that night. I was content to be near you in any way possible, and if that meant being tossed on the ground I was willing to take it.

“I have not deleted any part of planning your wedding, your stag night, your wedding day, or any subsequent contact we have had. They are painful memories, yes, but they involve you, and I am unwilling to delete any memory in which you are present.

“What I’m trying to say, is, John Hamish Watson, I love you. That’s the whole of it.”

And with that, the veil is rent, walls tumble, and love so dreadfully hidden just beneath the skins of both men is laid bare in the light of morning. John looks up at Sherlock, their lips press together. Each is unsure who initiated what, but each man’s mouth forms to the shape of the other’s, and they gently kiss for several minutes, tongues and lips exploring mouths. Salty tears and morning breath saliva mingle as John wraps his hand in Sherlock’s hair and takes control of their kiss, moving from resting on Sherlock’s chest to straddling him.

“Sherlock, I am so in love with you. I am so sorry for the time I wasted being a goddamned idiot.” John gasps when he breaks their kiss in order to breathe.

“John, do shut up. The more you apologise, the less time there is for me to kiss you.”

The world outside goes on about its quotidian affairs, and Rosie is still dying, but these two have found one another. 


	7. Goodbye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock say goodbye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Grab some tissues. This chapter and the next might be tearjerkers, but then the hardest part will be behind us.  
> I can promise, better times are coming. :) 
> 
> I adore the song quoted at the beginning - Cat Stevens/Yusuf Islam is an unequaled musical talent. If you want to hear it in full (and I recommend, because it's gorgeous), here is a link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bP6B9HttRI8

_Oh very young, what will you leave us this time?  
You’re only dancing on this earth for a short while.  – Cat Stevens/Yusuf Islam, “Oh Very Young”_

7 January 2015, 10.13

The lights of St. Mary’s intensive care are dimmed that day as they always are. Minimal stimulation is critical to these babies’ growth and well-being. John and Sherlock have climbed out of bed, showered, and eaten, the latter being an insistence, oddly, of Sherlock’s. Neither is at all prepared, despite each’s best effort - for what’s about to happen but they’ve determined to face it in comfortable clothes – and together.

Rebecca, the nurse, greets them at Rosie’s bedside. It’s her third day in a row, she explains when they return the greeting and ask if she ever leaves the hospital. She’s pleasant but not bubbly, as she also knows what lies ahead that day. She explains that Doctor Smithson is currently rounding on other babies and will be over to see them once rounds are finished, and asks if they’d like to kangaroo Rosie in the meantime.

Both men would of course jump at the chance to snuggle the tiny girl, but Sherlock agrees that it is John’s turn. John unbuttons his shirt and heads toward the recliner that seems to have made a permanent home at Rosie’s bedside - that, or a nurse was thoughtful enough to bring it over in anticipation of their visit. Rebecca moves to open Rosie’s isolette and keeps her lines from tangling while John picks her up and cradles her on his bare skin. Sherlock fetches a warm blanket for both of them – _leave it to Sherlock Holmes to know where they keep the warm blankets_ , John thinks affectionately – and spreads it over Rosie and John before planting a kiss on both their foreheads.

The hospital staff are quite used to dealing with all manner of family dynamics, and hospital policy dictates they support diverse family situations, but they do like to at least have a clear understanding of who is what to whom so they can render proper care and address family members correctly. But if they’re honest none of them are quite sure what to make of the family dynamics here. They know – because newborn charts contain some maternal information – that Rosie’s mother died during delivery and that her father is here, but none of them are quite sure what to make of Sherlock Holmes at Rosie’s bedside. Is he here for moral support as John’s best friend? A caring uncle or godfather? Except for today. The unadulterated adoration in Sherlock’s eyes as he covers Rosie in blankets and kisses her forehead then moves to kiss John as well leaves no room for doubt. _These two are arse over tits for each other, look at them_ , one Scottish nurse whispers to another. None of them knows the story behind the story, as it were, and most of them do not care, but it is today, now, that the love between John Watson and Sherlock Holmes is spoken out loud. 

*************

  
“Of course we’re not ready, but we’re as ready as we’re ever going to be,” quips John as Dr. Smithson – also on his third twelve-hour call in a row – asks how they’re doing and if they’re prepared for the task at hand. The entire unit has been made aware that Rosie’s life support is going to be discontinued today; staff are quieter than usual, the lights are dimmer, and if anyone is cracking jokes they aren’t doing it within earshot of Rosie's bedside. 

Rebecca stands quietly by Rosie and her fathers as Doctor Smithson explains what the nurses have no doubt heard many times over. He explains that Rosie’s life support will be gently and gradually withdrawn, starting with the most invasive and ending with the least invasive, in order that her final time on earth be as comfortable as possible for as long as possible. In Rosie’s case, this means the endotracheal tube connecting her to a ventilator will be removed first, followed by her cardiac leads and pulse oximetry probe, and lastly the intravenous line going into her umbilical vein giving her the medications that have been maintaining her blood pressure. Any medications needed from here on out will be given in small amounts under Rosie’s tongue to be absorbed into her system. The doctors and nurses silently pray that she will not need any medications, that her death will happen quickly and peacefully. John and Sherlock would too, if they prayed or knew what to pray for.

Doctor Smithson begins the process by unhooking Rosie’s endotracheal tube from the ventilator. Rebecca deflates the cuff, the plastic bubble holding it in her airway, and Doctor Smithson slowly removes it. She doesn’t sputter much thanks to the pain and antianxiety medications she received in her IV just a few minutes prior. Next come the cardiac leads and pulse oximetry, which can be painful if done too quickly, like ripping a plaster off tender skin. They take their time doing this while John holds her and kisses her fingers, and eventually there is nothing adhesive stuck to Rosie’s skin. The final piece to be removed is the Umbilical catheter. Rebecca stops the machines pumping meds into Rosie, and together she and Doctor Smithson cut the lone suture holding the umbilical IV in place. They gently remove the catheter and tie her umbilical cord stump closed in order to prevent any blood from flowing out of the tiny vein which the catheter had previously held open.

Now that Rosie is free from all her lines, she can lie directly on John’s chest. With Rebecca’s help, John moves from face-up in his arms to on her belly on his chest, her face turned toward Sherlock. John breathes in the scent of her hat, her baby skin, and her baby drool and closes his eyes, but not before a tear spills out of one eye. 

Sherlock kneels beside John, looks directly into Rosie’s unseeing eyes, and slips a hand onto Rosie’s back, just underneath John’s. Their fingers are loosely interlaced as they hold their daughter.

And then…..they wait.

Rosie breathes peacefully on her own for several minutes before beginning to wiggle and thrash in John’s arms, gasping and making mewling noises like a newborn kitten. Rebecca recognizes this as a sign of pain and possibly air hunger and draws up a tiny dose of morphine in an oral syringe, then places drops of it under Rosie’s tongue to be absorbed by the membranes in her mouth. She then removes the blanket currently draped over Rosie and replaces it with another blanket from the blanket warmer in order to keep Rosie as warm as possible.

If Sherlock could describe this moment in one word, he would call it _ethereal_. He would swear that Rosie smiles at the feel of her father’s heartbeat against her cheek. He watches John’s face, a smile mingled with tears, as he kisses Rosie’s forehead. For his part, Sherlock allows her to grasp his index finger with the hand not currently on her back, and he begins to sing her the same French lullaby as he did at their first meeting. Together John and Sherlock envelop Rosie as she moves from this world to whatever comes next. John feels rather than sees Rosie’s body relax when her final breath leaves her tiny body. His shoulders heave with sobs as he holds her even more tightly to his chest. Tears flow from Sherlock’s eyes as he kisses the tiny hand over and over. They stay like that for what feels to them like days but by the clock is twenty-three minutes. Time of death 11.48.

*************

Parents whose children have just died need space to say goodbye, Rebecca knows, so she watches them from a few feet away but does not move or speak until they turn to her to ask what the next steps are.

Together, John and Sherlock bathe Rosie and dress her in a slightly-too-big bumblebee outfit Mrs. Hudson had talked Sherlock into ordering for her well before her birth. The men take pictures of one another holding and nuzzling her, and Rebecca takes photos of the family of three in varying poses: one of Sherlock holding Rosie with John embracing them both, then John and Sherlock switch places. The final poses, Rebecca’s idea, are close-ups of Rosie’s tiny feet with John and Sherlock’s intertwined fingers holding them from beneath.

 There are enough wisps of golden yellow hair that Rebecca removes a few of them and places them in a tiny plastic bag. Though neither John nor Sherlock is religious, a kindly vicar visits them with plaster of Paris in hand to offer them a mould of Rosie’s feet, which they agree to. Though not the usual protocol, the vicar agrees to drop it by their flat once it dries instead of having them retrieve it from intensive care in twenty-four hours.

Rosie’s fathers stay with her for several more hours, taking turns holding her and weeping. They do not talk much except to note how beautiful Rosie’s hands and feet are, and Sherlock reminds John how much Rosie’s nose looks like John’s. They decide to have her cremated, and they’ll figure out what to do with her ashes later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've watched parents as they held their dying children more times than I can count, and it never gets easier. It's an enormous privilege to be allowed in at such a personal time in people's lives, but it is heartrendingly difficult. It must be exponentially more difficult to be given a child and then asked to say goodbye.
> 
> Thanks so much to all who are reading along, sticking with me, and trusting me to do right by this story. I love your comments, your feedback, and your kudos. This story is deeply personal to me and I'm grateful that I've put my heart out for you to read and you've been so kind with it. xx


	8. Epistola

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock grieve Rosie's death. Short and intense chapter.  
> After this, there may be a little angst here and there but the worst is over, I promise!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Epistola' is one of several Latin words for 'letter,' and you will quickly see why I've chosen this as the chapter title.

12 January, 2015

Dearest Rosie,

It’s me again, your dad. I miss you so much I can barely stand it. I never ever knew that it was possible to love someone that didn’t exist before until I saw you. You were alive for just a few short days but you taught me what it was like to have a part of my heart beating outside my body.

Back in the old medical textbooks, babies born with what you had were called anencephalic (from the Greek word meaning “headless”) monsters. God, am I so glad that went out of vogue before I studied medicine, because you were beautiful. Holding you and loving you was the greatest thing I’ve ever done, and I’m so glad you gave me the chance to do it.

I’m still trying to figure out what to do now that you’re gone. I go between being angry at God - I’m not sure if He exists or not, but I guess it gives me someone to be mad at – and being relieved that you’re not suffering anymore and being grateful that you showed up in my life at all. You gave me the chance to be a dad. I don’t know if I got it all right or not, but I tried, Rosie. I tried as much as I could to do what I thought was right for you.

I guess I should take the chance and thank you for something else too, sweetheart. You helped me find the love of my life. While you were still alive, he went with me to the nursery, held you, and sang to you. I overheard him saying some things to you that I don’t know if he’d ever have said to me, and because of that, we have realized how very much we love each other. Thank you, my darling Rosie, for bringing your papa Sherlock back into my life. He loved you as much as I do, if not more.

I want you to know (wherever you are) that you will always be my precious baby girl and that I will always love you to the moon and back.

With buckets and buckets of love,   
Daddy

*************

Dear Rosie,

I am not much of a writer to begin with – your dad takes care of that for us - and certainly I’ve never written a letter to a newborn, but your daddy seems to think this is a good idea and he is never wrong. I promise to not to talk to you like you’re incapable of understanding; adults do this to children all the time and I find it tedious.

I have never seen anyone be more in love with another human being than your daddy was when he was with you. When I first met your dad, I didn’t think it was possible for him to be any more beautiful, until I saw him holding you on his chest when you were just hours old. He looked at you as if you were a gift from the gods of every universe.

Then, when I held you myself, I finally understood – I think – what it means for a parent to love a child. Of course I did not birth you, nor did you carry any of my DNA, but the moment your tiny fingers curled around mine, I knew I’d have killed or died for you, paid any price to see you happy. I loved- love you more than I can articulate here. You were beautiful beyond description. I do not know what happens after death, as I’ve no evidence by which to judge the matter. I do believe that you’re no longer suffering, for which I can only be grateful. Your dad and I tried our best to ensure that you stayed comfortable while you were alive. You alone can judge that, wherever you are.

Whatever lies ahead for your dad and me is as yet unknown. Whether we are together for eternity or for a short time only, you will always occupy a corner of my heart.

With love from   
Papa Sherlock

*************

There is a small funeral a few days after Rosie’s death, not religious in nature, as befits the daughter of two men unsure of the existence of any deity, and in any case religious platitudes aren’t helpful when a man is tasked with burying his child. John, Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson, Greg, and Mycroft are the only ones in attendance. A few friends drop into Baker Street afterward, and Mrs. Hudson bakes her love into pies and casseroles so they can grieve with full stomachs. Each man writes a letter and places it in an envelope. They’ll bury the letters along with her ashes inside the urn, and they’ll place a small marker in the ground above. At Sherlock’s request, it will read

                                                       Rosalie Margaret Watson   
                                                        _Formosa Filiae_  
 _Requiescat in pace_

After the funeral and visitors and food and having to retell the story several times, they are alone again in the flat. They have wept all the tears they can weep for now. They have felt every emotion imaginable: sorrow, anger, fear, relief, exhaustion, and several more neither can articulate, emotions so tucked into their marrow they cannot be named.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rosie's headstone reads, in Latin:   
> "Beautiful daughter  
> May she rest in peace."


	9. Collide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the happiness we all deserve after so much pain. It's still a little bittersweet, but there is definite reward here. :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I desperately wanted some song lyrics for the beginning of this chapter but nothing in any of my Spotify playlists was what I needed. Then one day driving home from work, this old INXS beauty came on the radio and voila! It was the one.

“ _I was standing,_  
_Y_ _ou were there_  
Two worlds collided  
And they could never tear us apart…..”   - INXS, _Never Tear Us Apart_  
  
Hours turn into days and weeks. Each man grieves Rosie as best he knows how, neither having trod this path before. John mostly misses her quietly, unassumingly, the way he does almost everything. He thinks of her, remembers the days when he would talk to Mary’s belly and dream of what Rosie would look like. He goes to sleep cherishing the hours he spent with her, soft baby skin next to his bare chest, her chubby baby-hand curled into his. He second-guesses himself, turning it over in his head whether going home to sleep that one extra night was the right thing to do, or whether he should’ve allowed the physicians to discontinue her life support sooner rather than later, whether he prolonged her suffering and delayed the inevitable any with that decision. _Stop it, Watson, what’s done is done, the what-ifs won’t do you any good now._ He cries, but only on particularly bad days. Mostly he is emotionally spent, walking a fine balance between joy that he and have Sherlock have discovered how much each means to the other and the _three-steps-forward-two-steps-back_ scribbling internal chaos that is mourning.

Sherlock pours his emotions into his violin, the slide of the bow over the strings saying to John and the universe whatever he needs to express. Some days he plays a requiem for Rosie, and some days he plays a lively Mozart piece. Though he does not believe in an afterlife per se, he does believe in the conservation of energy, and believes that the matter and energy that once was Rosie Watson lives on somewhere. On days when he knows he needs to, he writes his love for John into an on-the-spot improvisation, for despite the fact that these men have one another memorized, love is sometimes easier for them to show than to say.

For a while they are too emotionally raw over Rosie’s death and their newfound relationship to do anything but make out a day-to-day existence.

One particularly emotional day about a month after Rosie has died, John visits Rosie’s grave alone. He has a few things to say to her and he keeps the words between the two of them. Sherlock knows that, for whatever reason, this visit will be a particularly difficult one, because John has asked to go by himself. Because he loves John, Sherlock complies without questioning. John goes alone.

He doesn’t say much when he gets home, but Sherlock loves him and Sherlock knows he will need to eat and will not want to talk. Sherlock has prepared some chicken and rice and left it warm on the stove. When John trudges up the stairs, Sherlock moves to his violin and begins to play something soft and sweet, a tender embrace writ on a treble clef. True to form, John toes off his shoes and sinks wordlessly down upon the sofa, where he leans his head against the back and sits unmoving for nearly twenty minutes.

 _God, but I cherish you_ , John thinks, as he hears the words Sherlock can only speak through his violin strings. John’s entire body aches from the mental taxation of spending time at his daughter’s grave and ruminating – still – upon the mess he’s managed to make of everything. It is all he can do to grab some of the food Sherlock has left on the stove _god love him_ and shovel a few forkfuls into his mouth. Once he has eaten, he heads for the shower in hopes that the steam and hot water will loosen his fried muscles. 

Sherlock is almost ready to retire his violin when he feels a pair of arms around his waist and the soapy citrus scent of John’s freshly-washed hair behind him. “Mmmmmm, I was getting lonely,” he smiles as he lays his violin down to find John’s hands clasped around his waist. He leans back into John’s embrace and stays that way, gently swaying side to side in the arms of this man who has endured so much and chooses to make Sherlock’s heart his home.

“I was thinking, Sherlock…I’m crap at saying it, but thank you for taking care of me today. I’m knackered and it’s bedtime for both of us. Shall we?” Sherlock unclasps his hands from John’s and turns around in his embrace, takes John’s face in both of his, and kisses him, lips firm and sweet against John’s, with just the slightest hint of tongue. This isn’t what John had expected, but neither is it unwelcome. John is trying his best, learning to let himself be cared for when he hurts, and he brings his hands up Sherlock’s back to rest on Sherlock’s shoulder blades and pulls Sherlock closer to him so they can deepen their kiss.

As they continue to kiss, soft tongues and lips exploring one another, John has no choice but to pull Sherlock closer to him in order to taste as much of this man as he can. Despite the exhaustion that sinks into his marrow, he finds himself more than willing to continue kissing Sherlock for as long as Sherlock will allow himself to be kissed. John removes one hand from Sherlock’s back and brings it around to the nape of Sherlock’s neck in order to make it clear that he enthusiastically wishes his tongue to remain in Sherlock’s mouth for the time being.

“Mmmmm,” groans Sherlock into their kiss. He is nearly lightheaded with the feel of John’s lips on his own and John’s tongue eagerly searching his mouth and John’s hands on his back and neck. This is far better than Sherlock had ever imagined while being beaten to a pulp in Serbia, far more delightful than he had ever dreamt whilst lying awake in his bed once John had gotten married. (While no one dared utter it to Sherlock, and he dared not even think it to himself at the time, he realises in a flash of memory that he had mourned John’s loss as that of a spouse, not a friend.) Returning to present reality, he realizes that he is hard in his trousers, achingly so, at the feel of John Watson in him, on him, around him. Even more agreeable is the awareness that John Watson is also hard and is presently manoevering himself to slot himself between Sherlock’s slightly-spread feet. Sherlock groans again and pulls slightly away from their kiss, just far enough to ghost the words “This….feels…..spectacular” into John’s ear.

“Doesn’t it, though?” John whispers back into Sherlock’s ear. John was unaware that he needed this sort of healing, but he doubts that there is a shaman alive who can concoct a more potent elixir than Sherlock Holmes’ breath in his ear and hard cock pressed against his and tongue exploring his mouth. “Let’s take this somewhere slightly more comfortable, if that’s alright,” he whispers.

“Anywhere you like, John. Anywhere at all.”

“Bedroom, then?”

Despite the inflection in John’s voice, it is more a statement than a question. Sherlock walks forward and John backward, for they do not want to let go of nor stop kissing one another for the ten-step trek to Sherlock’s – _their_ – bedroom. Sherlock closes the bedroom door behind them with one foot, and John presses him up against the door, the two of them breathless and flushed.

“John….” Sherlock hesitates in John’s arms. “John, today has been an emotional day for you, you are exhausted, and while we have shared a bed for quite some time, now may not be the best time for us to do anything less platonic for the first ti-"

“Sherlock, please stop talking, because I would rather be kissing you. And doing anything else you would like to do right now. I am a grown man, and this is exactly what I want. I want _you_.”

“In that case,” Sherlock whispers as he leans his forehead into John’s, “you can have me. In any way you want me. Good God, I have loved you and wanted you for so long. _So long, John_.”

John turns them around and gentles Sherlock toward their bed, nipping kisses along his jaw, ear, and neck in the process. He lays Sherlock down on their bed and climbs atop him to straddle his hips, both men still fully clothed.

“Jesus Haploid Christ, Sherlock Holmes, you are a marvel,” John whispers in awe. Their cocks are touching – barely – through their trousers. John resists the urge to rip both their clothes off in favor of getting on all fours to surround Sherlock’s head with his hands and Sherlock’s hips with his knees, hemming Sherlock in, as it were. As much as he wants to take, to claim, to mark, he just as much wants Sherlock to build an exquisite room in his mind palace in which to tuck this memory. _The first time we made love._

He starts with Sherlock’s hair, breathing in the scent of Sherlock’s shampoo and luxuriating his fingers through the phenomenal curls which John tried for years to pretend wasn’t the stuff of his fantasies. John moves to Sherlock’s eyes, those gorgeous irises reminiscent of the Caribbean lagoons he’d seen on calendar pictures. He places a chaste kiss over each one, almost worshipful in his slowness.

“John….you can hurry this up if you’re as exhausted as you mentioned earlier,” Sherlock breathes out. It’s clear he’s struggling to keep control of his voice.

“You beautiful man, I’m going to take my time. We’ve waited for far too long for this to be anything but exquisite for you. I’m going to love you properly,” John whispers as he mouths sweet soft kisses down Sherlock’s nose and cheekbones, covering each side of his face with tiny pecks, and stopping to nibble on each earlobe. This earns him a moan and an involuntary roll of hips as Sherlock seeks friction. John lowers himself onto Sherlock’s body and wraps his arms around Sherlock’s neck. He’s supporting most of his own weight on his knees still, but he envelops Sherlock in heat and provides some much-sought-after friction for his straining cock. It doesn’t last, though, because John isn’t finished worshipping. He raises back up on his elbows and breathes into Sherlock’s neck, inhaling his scent and trailing his fingers down each collarbone while placing yet more tiny wet kisses behind where the fingers had been. He gently opens Sherlock’s shirt buttons and removes his shirt as his hands travel down Sherlock’s shoulders and arms, fingers tracing light paths over each one, and John quickly finds himself running out of synonyms for ‘beautiful.’ He takes each of Sherlock’s hands in his, admiring the long fingers with calluses on the tips from years spent on the neck and bow of a violin. He brings each of them to his mouth and sucks each finger down, imagining all the things he’s sure Sherlock will figure out to do with them. Sherlock gasps and bucks again, begging John to please hurry up. “The answer is still that I am taking my time with you, you bloody fucking marvel.”

Now that Sherlock’s shirt is off, John sits back up on his haunches, straddling Sherlock’s hips and admiring Sherlock’s chest and torso. He gently passes his hands over Sherlock’s pectorals, abdomen, and flanks, stopping briefly at the scar that reminds him of what he’d almost lost _twice_. The fact that Sherlock moans a bit when his nipples are touched is not lost on John. _Note to self._

“Sherlock Holmes, has anyone ever told you how absolutely wonderful you look half-naked?”

Sherlock bites his lips, looks away from John’s gaze, and husks out, “Well….no.”

“Then allow me to be the first. You are….exquisite. And if it’s alright with you, I’d like to see what you look like completely naked very very soon.”

“Mmmmm, sooner rather than later, John,” Sherlock breathes out. His voice is tinged with a whimper of desperation.

“Well, off come your trousers, then, while I’m still vertical,” laughs John. He leans back down to bracket Sherlock between his elbows and knees as he kisses over Sherlock’s flank, belly, and grazes over both nipples. Replicating his previous reaction, Sherlock moans more loudly than the first time and wraps his arms and legs around John above him, pulling John down so that John’s entire weight now rests deliciously on Sherlock’s torso and cock.

 _No longer vertical,_ smirks Sherlock to himself.

“I believe I wasn’t done undressing you, Mister Holmes,” John says with an impish grin as he moves to unbutton Sherlock’s trousers. With a lift of his hips, Sherlock assists John in shucking them off and tossing them onto the hardwood floor. John slips one finger down each side of Sherlock’s pants and slips them down just enough so that the head of Sherlock’s cock peeks out. Sherlock begs, pleads with John to just take the damn pants off, for God’s sake, so John obliges and Sherlock is finally gloriously naked, and nothing John has seen in his prior four decades has prepared him for this. Sherlock, fully nude on their bed, a porcelain god if there ever was one, curls disarrayed around his head and writhing in desperation _please John right now I need you._

John scoots Sherlock up in the bed to give himself better access to this marvelous being, this _terra firma_ deity he’s wanted for so long but never thought would be his. He plants soft sloppy wet kisses down Sherlock’s belly, down the soft dark trail of hair that leads to his cock. He peeks up at Sherlock questioningly, and as if reading his mind, Sherlock says, “Please, John. Whatever you want to do, I am yours.”

It is all the permission John needs to take Sherlock in his mouth, slowly at first. He softly mouths at the glans and foreskin, giving the latter a soft nibble. He kisses up and down Sherlock’s shaft and takes a few moments to breathe in the scent of Sherlock’s pubic hair. ( _god, why did we wait so long?_ ) John tastes the tiny drop of precome that has gathered at the slit before taking Sherlock all the way into his mouth, no small feat for a man unaccustomed to sucking off blokes, nevermind one with a cock as long as Sherlock’s. John’s hands hold Sherlock’s hips in place, giving him the opportunity to lavish attention on Sherlock for as long as he likes, despite Sherlock’s keening, moaning, and whimpering. John gives Sherlock a few sucks, licking up the length of Sherlock’s cock each time he pulls back to just leave the head in his mouth. After a few repetitions, Sherlock’s cock begins to pulse more precome, which John eagerly swallows.

“John, _please_. I can’t take this any longer, I need to come. Please let me come, _I’m begging you_ ,” whines Sherlock when John pauses momentarily.

As much as he’d love to draw this out even more, he really cannot justify making Sherlock – patient Sherlock, who has already waited five years – wait any longer. John reaches moves up to kiss each of Sherlock’s nipples, then back revisits Sherlock’s cock. He reaches one hand up to continue to play with Sherlock’s nipple while he licks and sucks at Sherlock’s cock, paying special attention to his foreskin and frenulum. After about sixty seconds, Sherlock arches his back and moans, then comes and comes and comes, the hot salty liquid a litany of praise down John’s throat. John continues to suck as Sherlock trembles with the aftershocks.

After swallowing the last pulse of come, John pulls off, tells Sherlock how utterly gorgeous he is when he comes, and leans up to kiss Sherlock’s mouth, bracketing his body around Sherlock’s, when he realizes that he’s crying. He kisses Sherlock, the salt of Sherlock’s come and the salt of his own tears mingling on their lips. They kiss like this for what feels like forever.

“You’re crying. What did I do wrong, John?” Sherlock sits up, wide-eyed.

Now that the floodgates have opened, John can’t stop sobbing. Between sobs, he manages to choke out, “Nothing, my love. You’ve done nothing wrong. Just that this feels so…..so….good. So right.” He’s crying the tears of a man for whom love and grief and relief are pressed down, shaken together, and running over.

Weeks later after another lovemaking session he will pour out to Sherlock how he’s wanted to put his mouth on another bloke for years, decades even, and once he met Sherlock he was sure that was the bloke he’d dreamt about. For now, John weeps at just how fantastic it is to know that he’s where he’s meant to be. Despite whatever shitshow may be occurring roundabout them, whatever else they may yet have to deal with, the cosmic tumblers have finally clicked into place and allowed these two souls in this universe to find one another.

Sherlock, still naked, takes John, still clothed, into his arms and wraps both arms and legs around him. John is no longer hard, no longer in search of an orgasm. Sherlock has just had a fantastic orgasm, and is now holding the only person whom he has ever truly dared to love. Sherlock inhales the scent of John’s hair _soap and sage and John_ and peppers the top of John’s head with tiny kisses as John continues to weep. “It feels right because it _is_ right, John. You. Me. This. It is right.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I TOLD Y'ALL IT WAS GOING TO GET BETTER!!!!!!  
> (More happiness is coming, I promise.)


	10. Twice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morning sexy times. Well-deserved happiness. :)

They awaken the next morning, a tangle of naked limbs and mussed hair and sour breath. It couldn’t have been past seven the prior evening when they’d made love and Sherlock had held John as he wept for the trainwreck of the past eight – no, forty – years of his life. Sherlock had wrapped his lanky limbs around John and held him until no more tears came, and then held him some more, just the two of them silent; no words had been spoken. No words had been necessary. At some point – neither is sure exactly when – Sherlock had gently undressed John down to his pants and tucked him into bed before climbing into bed himself, not bothering to dress. He had wrapped his arm around John’s waist and tucked the top of John’s head under his chin, and pressed the length of his body against John, and it was thus that they fell asleep.

Sherlock is the first to awaken in morning’s soft blue light, his right arm still around John and his hand splayed over John’s age-softened midsection. The sounds of London waking up are muted through their frosted bedroom window, and Sherlock still can’t quite believe his good luck at being here now and with this man asleep in his arms. He is still for a few minutes, watching John’s slow, regular _in-out-in-out_ breathing as a soft smile plays on John’s lips. Sherlock decides that he has nowhere else to be at the moment and nestles his legs back into the bend of John’s knees and presses his chest and stomach into John’s back; he is able to ignore his morning erection. John Watson is exhausted and needs to sleep.

An hour passes, then two. John stirs and without opening his eyes whispers, “I think I should do that every night.”

“You should do _what_ every night….be the little spoon?” inquires Sherlock.

“I think I should suck your cock every night, you idiot,” John replies with a soft smirkish grin on his face, opening his eyes just enough to peek over his right shoulder at Sherlock. “Not only are you fucking gorgeous when you come, but I slept better last night than I’ve slept in years.”

“Isn’t that what they call a….win-win situation or something?” Sherlock smiles as he thinks aloud. “In any case, I think it's time I returned the favour." 

 “I’ll never say no to your gorgeous mouth on my cock, but just so you know, we don’t have to keep score. I’m fairly certain there will be enough opportunities for us both to have more our share of fu-,”

With that, Sherlock is straddling John and kissing him, his mouth soft and warm and wet on John’s, and his hands cradle John’s face. His morning erection is a bit more insistent now, and John’s is no less impressive as their cocks rub together through John’s pants, eliciting a moan from both men. They continue to kiss and explore one another’s mouths. Sherlock licks into John’s mouth and gently bites his lower lip. John’s eyes roll backward in his head as he grabs Sherlock’s waist with his legs and pulls him closer. He bites Sherlock’s earlobe and is rewarded instantaneously with the knowledge that this is a highly erogenous spot for Sherlock. Sherlock is rocking back and forth above John, their cocks still hard and seeking more friction.

"Doctor Watson, your pants," grunts Sherlock, the only four words he can manage to string together coherently.

Together they make quick work of John’s pants, leaving warm skin to rub against warm skin as they press their naked bodies tighter together and John pulls Sherlock back on top of him for another deep-throated kiss. Friction continues to build as they kiss and rub against one another, John’s cock dripping copious amounts of pre-come, and Sherlock (having had the more recent orgasm) having some but not quite as much.

“Sherlock, god, this is fantastic. I want you so much. God, you’ve no idea,” John pants out as they frot against each other.

“Shall we find a way to make it a good morning, then?” Sherlock smirks. He kisses his way down John’s chest and bites at one of John’s nipples before licking at it to soothe, and is rewarded by John’s hand in his hair giving it a good yank.

“Ohhhhh god, John, if you do that much more I will not last very long either,” Sherlock moans wantonly.

Sherlock’s mouth continues its journey southward as he kisses down John’s abdomen and hips, and he nestles his face against John’s cock and breathes in its particular scent of soap and sweat and John. “This is…..large, John,” Sherlock gasps as he licks up the length of Sherlock’s cock. He mouths at each of John’s balls and John bucks against the headboard.

“Jesus, where did you learn to do this?” John moans and pants. “I swear to god –“

“Use my mouth, John. Fuck it. Take what you need and come down my throat.”

John bucks his hips and Sherlock swallows John’s girth to the root, licking and sucking at a punishing pace. Between Sherlock Holmes knowing what to do with a big cock and John Watson fucking Sherlock’s mouth, it isn’t long before John comes, alternately cursing and shouting Sherlock’s name. Sherlock swallows John’s come like a man who hasn’t eaten all week.

“Jesus Christ, you beautiful man, let’s get you off in both our hands,” John gasps after the last tremors of orgasm have abated.

Sherlock climbs up to straddle John again, propping his weight on one elbow while his other hand grasps his aching cock. It isn’t long before he feels a second pair of fingers threading through his own, and together he and John begin to pump. John leans up to suck on one of Sherlock’s nipples, and Sherlock moans, then suddenly he is coming, his second orgasm in less than twenty-four hours, and certainly the two most closely spaced orgasms he can remember. The warm wet liquid shoots out onto their hands and paints John’s belly, and Sherlock cannot ever remember a solution to a case feeling quite this blissful.

He sinks down, draping half his body over half of John’s body, and kisses John’s mouth. They gaze at each other, tears in both their eyes as they marvel at their good luck yet again. Sherlock manages to whisper through his tears, "Thank you, John Watson, for loving me so well."  

 


	11. Sainsbury's

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John realise that grief can come back at unexpected times.   
> John is so tender with Sherlock's heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is some angst in here, but not nearly as much as what we've already been through. I wrote this chapter mostly to illustrate how difficult grief can be; one minute you're fine, then bam! out of nowhere the most mundane thing triggers (and I don't use the word lightly) a massive reaction. That's a completely normal part of grieving, although it seems hard for outsiders to wrap their heads around. There's no set point at which you're 'over' a massive loss. 
> 
> The thing I love about this chapter is that, while they're both soft here, John is allowed to be the one who takes care of Sherlock. Throughout the BBC series Sherlock does SO MUCH to take care of and protect John (and I love him for that), but I think Sherlock deserves some TLC as well. Give me vulnerable Sherlock and tender John every day of the week!

‘For them it is the Sama of this world and the next   
Even more for the circle of dancers within the Sama   
Who turn and have, in their midst, their own Ka’aba.’ - Rumi

14 April 2015

Grief is not linear. No matter what any person or book says, it is less like walking one foot in front of the other and more like being spun like a whirling dervish by forces beyond human control. Spun, disoriented, tossed about, and somehow, somehow by a miracle still alive when the rotation ceases. If one is lucky, one is stronger, wiser, and they may dare to say grateful for the privilege of having loved a being to whom they later bade farewell.

Sherlock awakens one Tuesday morning, showers, and dresses according to his usual routine. He and John have more or less settled into a routine, a new normal, as it were. John works afternoons at the surgery, which leaves him time to stay out late with Sherlock, who has begun taking cases again and it seems to be doing him good. Each misses Rosie in his own way and they’ve taken to talking about her some nights whilst curled around one another before sleep finds them. What they miss most, what she’d be doing right now if she hadn’t died (and, they must always uncomfortably acknowledge, if she had been born with her brain intact).

It has been a relatively easy day – a short trip to Scotland Yard to give a few statements to Lestrade and the crew, then nothing on for the rest of the day. Sherlock and John make their way to Sainsbury’s for some vegetables to sauté – Sherlock still isn’t fond of food shopping but will go with John because John likes it when he does – when they spot a toddler skipping alongside her mother. This towheaded azure-eyed being sports a slightly-too-large bee costume and her antennae bounce on her head each time she lands a step. Sherlock stops in his tracks and stares for half a minute.

First it is a single tear that spills over Sherlock’s lower lid and down his cheek. His lip wobbles ever so slightly and once the one tear starts, there is no stopping the rest. In the aisle at Sainsbury’s Sherlock Holmes weeps, so forcefully that he collapses onto the floor, arms crossed over his body, shoulders heaving, and a guttural, primal moan emitting from his chest amid the flood of tears and sobbing. He cares not who sees him, indeed, he does not even notice bystanders, so deep is the well of grief he has carried.

One thing John Watson has known about Sherlock Holmes for many years is that despite the indifferent façade he presents to most of the world, Sherlock cares. He cares so deeply, _so fucking intensely_ , where the marginalised or innocent are concerned; he only pretends not to so he doesn’t lose his ability to help people. _Almost exactly how a doctor can stay calm during an emergency_ , John had thought when he first realised it.

Sherlock’s sudden display of emotion surprises even John, not by its occurrence but by its intensity. Not even John had seen the cracks in the dam, so well had Sherlock kept them hidden; whether by accident or by design John neither knows nor cares.

“Sherlock, darling.” John whispers as he kneels beside the man he loves, trolley abandoned in the aisle. He cups Sherlock's face in his hands and brings Sherlock's face to meet his. "Darling, I am here." 

“The little gir-….the bee suit…..I just – I can’t do this, John,” Sherlock manages to grit out between sobs and ragged, heaving breaths. “She just-….she’s gone and…I loved her and she’s gone and it’s SO bloody unfair,” he spits out, the last few words coming rapid-fire-machine-gun style before he collapses into more sobs in the middle of the floor at Sainsbury’s, tears pouring from his eyes and mucus dripping out his nose and he does not move to wipe way either.

John says nothing, but wraps his arms around Sherlock, who folds himself into them and they stay that way for several minutes. Mercifully, their fellow shoppers seem to understand the impropriety of gawking and the two men are left in peace. When Sherlock breaks their embrace, John stands and offers a hand to ease him off the floor. They leave the food trolley where John had previously deserted it and Sherlock allows himself to be led out the door and down the street two blocks back to the flat.

Sherlock is mostly incapable of coherent speech by the time they are home; he alternates between weeping and staring into space. He has mostly made peace with the fact that he had no control over the things that led to Rosie’s conception, birth, and death. Still, he longs to have her back. He would trade anything to hold her on his bare chest again, to caress her face and hold her hand, to remind John that the amino acids and double helices aligned to give her John’s nose, and one day to teach her the atomic number for each element on the periodic table. He weeps at the unfairness of it, how there are millions – billions, even – of children running around perfectly healthy, while Rosie’s ashes are in an urn on the mantel. _Why her?_ he asks a God he doesn’t really believe in. He weeps and weeps until his lacrimal glands have nothing left to give; John sits perpendicularly beside him on the sofa, legs wrapped around Sherlock’s waist and arms wrapped Sherlock’s shoulders. He allows Sherlock to weep and talk (or not) for as long as he needs. Three hours later, Sherlock is – well, he’s not _better_. But he can form complete thoughts, and his body no longer involuntarily heaves with sobs. Eventually John leans back on the sofa to allow Sherlock to recline, and he cradles Sherlock in his arms and between his legs. 

“Darling, you need to eat,” John finally offers as he places a gentle kiss to Sherlock’s temple. John rises to put the kettle on.

Sherlock grudgingly agrees, since the day has now stretched into evening and he has yet to nibble at anything. John orders Thai takeaway and they eat (well, John eats and Sherlock picks at his) side by side on the sofa. Neither says much; they need no words.

John gently undresses Sherlock and guides him into the shower, where he allows John to wash him from head to toe. He stays silently under the warm water whilst John washes up, and they change into clean pyjamas. By the end of the evening Sherlock is bone-deep exhausted, and John meets no resistance when he guides Sherlock to their bed. Tonight it is Sherlock’s turn to be the little spoon despite their height difference. John curls into bed behind him, resting his chin on Sherlock’s shoulder and wrapping his arm around Sherlock’s taut abdomen. The warmth of their adjacent bodies lulls Sherlock into sleep almost as soon as his eyes close and his head touches the pillow.   



	12. Question/Answer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tooth rotting fluff and sweetness.  
> John has a question, Sherlock has an answer.

_How to be brave_  
_How can I love when I’m afraid to fall_  
_But watching you stand alone_  
_All of my doubt suddenly goes away somehow._     Christina Perri, “A Thousand Years”

May 17, 2015

The box in John’s pocket contains more than an accessory signifying forever. Memories of trauma, sorrow for a life ended _before it began, really_ , regrets of years wasted, tears for what might have been and what will never be, tears over bodies on the rainy Saint Bart’s pavement and bodies riddled with bullets, whispers in the night _oh God yes finally please more_ , sweat-slick bodies entwined, orgasms taken and given, hope that the lover will recognise that he is also the beloved, all these and more are contained in one box in John Watson’s pocket.

*************

John is up to something, but Sherlock can’t parse out exactly what. He’s been awfully secretive, and Sherlock’s sure he’s not cheating; the sex has been too fantastic and too frequent recently for it to be that, plus he knows John with his heart and soul, knows John like he knows his own pockets, and knows beyond all doubt that John’s not got anyone else. _But the cultures in the refrigerator have got to be looked at soon_ , he thinks. _I have got to figure out a way to get to them._

John had banished him from the kitchen earlier that morning and made him dredge up a tedious oath from primary school, something about Scout’s honor (or was it Scots’ honor? Sherlock didn’t know) that he would stay out of the kitchen for the entirety of the day.

After settling on photographic evidence from John via text as reassurance that the refrigerated samples had not been compromised in any way over the course of the day, Sherlock was out of excuses to wander into the kitchen. _Banished. Bored._  
  
*************  
_From John’s blog, saved to private drafts_.  
May 2, 2015  11.32

There’s nothing for it. I’m gone on you, you beyond-the-pale git.

I’ve known that I love you for a very long time. I’ve told you this before, and I hope know you know just how true it is.

But watching you with Rosie, and watching you grieve her, Sherlock. It has made me realise just how much I don’t ever want to live without you but I may have to one day. You know, we do dangerous work. If one of us were to die right now, I would live forever regretting that I didn’t tangibly show you just what you mean to me. I want you to know – I want everyone to know – that you are the other half of my soul and that I’d follow you into the gates of hell itself if you needed me to. You have died and come back – twice – for me. It’s a debt I can’t repay but I am bloody well going to spend the rest of our lives trying. I want you to go to your grave knowing that you are the first, best, and only person in this world for me.

We could have a pissing match over who’s the bigger romantic here, but that’s not really the point. I love you, Sherlock Holmes, and I am going to ask you to be my husband. I want the rest of my forever to be with you.

****  
May 17, 2015

_“John! Just what are you doing in there? I have been banished to the bedroom since half nine this morning, and it’s now half four in the afternoon. These four walls are wholly inadequate and I am BORED!!!”_

_Damn that man_ , John chuckles to himself as he reads the text and continues messing about in the kitchen, but not before responding. _You will have your answer soon enough. Calm your tits._

Thirty minutes later Sherlock is being led to the table, his trembling fingers intertwined with John’s sturdy _delightfully talented_ ones. He is unaccustomed to being on the receiving end of elaborate ruses, and he isn’t sure that he likes the idea. The kitchen smells heavenly, though, so he’s maybe willing to trust that whatever John has up his sleeve isn’t hazardous. John leads him through the kitchen into the sitting room, turns him around so that he is facing the kitchen again, and removes the blindfold.

The table has been cleared of all the banal detritus of daily living and experimentation and has been set with two beeswax candles. There is a bowl of lemon garlic pasta in the centre of the table, and John has managed to find matching plates, flatware, and wine glasses containing some pricey white wine. _Had to have gone shopping_ , Sherlock muses, without stopping to question the occasion just yet.

“John, it smells so delightful in here, even _I_ am hungry,” Sherlock declares as he turns to John with a soft open smile.

John gently grasps Sherlock’s hand and leads him to a chair at the table and, as befits a proper English gentleman, pulls out Sherlock’s chair and allows him to sit before sliding it closer to the table.

“You’re….being extra romantic here. I’ve always known you were this way, but I’m taken aback by the level to which you’ve taken this dinner,” Sherlock tells him as he takes his seat in the chair opposite Sherlock.

John raises his glass of wine in a toast to the two of them, for their finally having gotten their act together. Glasses clink and the room rings with the reverberations. They tuck into their dinner and for the first occasion in their time since they’ve met, John witnesses Sherlock Holmes eating a second helping of dinner.

John slides a finger into his trouser pocket while chewing the last bite of food on his plate. _Still there. Whew._ His countenance changes from playful to serious. Not the type of serious where someone is in dire trouble, but the type where he wants Sherlock to pay close attention to his spoken words.

“Now, Sherlock, today isn’t the anniversary of anything. But I thought it would be fun to indulge your nuttiness for a bit. I have pulled some strings and arranged for us to go to the lab at Bart’s – it’s where I fell in love with you, if I am honest – to pick up some things for you to use in your experiments here at home. Shall we head over there? 

Sherlock squeals like a child in a sweets shop and smiles with his entire body at the thought. _John speaks a language I can understand._ Sherlock scrambles for their coats and gloves, then wraps his blue scarf about his neck to keep out London’s unseasonable May iciness. They huddle for warmth in the tube station as they wait for the Circle train to carry them to their destination.

Once at the hospital, John fingers the contents of his pocket one final time.

They wind their way around the maze of the enormous facility – _have to love a teaching hospital_ , thinks John - and take the lift up to the pathology department, where John holds the door for Sherlock to make his way into their first meeting place. They are alone in the lab, between it being evening hours and John having used his human connections and medical degree to arrange for everyone who normally worked there after hours to vacate the premises for a bit. Enough time for their mission to be accomplished.

“Everything here is yours for the taking if you want it, darling,” John declares, gesturing to the workbench where Sherlock had been perched a bit over five years ago and John’s world had been upended. “Molly gathered some lab equipment that’s perfectly usable but superfluous here, and some leftover ears and eyeballs that were headed for the incinerator, and whatever you want you can have. Oh, and she especially thought you might be able to make use of these,” John smiles, holding up about a dozen new plates ready for fresh agar. The floor practically vibrates with Sherlock’s excitement as his hands dash about the counter surface, he is so thrilled with it all.

“Oh, and don’t worry about how to get it home. Yours truly brought a reusable shopping tote for part of it, and Molly said she’d see to it that the rest gets to Baker Street if we can’t fit it all.”

Sherlock picks up the petri dishes and lays them back down, then the tongs, the graduated cylinders, the beakers, the safety goggles, then the container of eyeballs, and all the other pieces Molly has found for Sherlock’s perusal. He is honestly not sure what to pick up first, and of course he wants to take it all home. “This is quality equipment; dreadful for them that they can’t use it, but excellent for my plans at home,” Sherlock muses with a grin spread from ear to ear.

 _I’d move heaven and earth to see him smile that smile every day_ , John thinks to himself with a soft smile on his own face.

As they pack all the things into the oversize tote bag John has brought along _John always keeps me right_ the two are amazed that it all somehow fits. As they pack the last piece into the bag, something on the bench catches Sherlock’s eye. A piece of paper, hidden apparently under all the equipment Sherlock had been positively swooning about. Was it there all this time, or where did it come from?

It bears John’s distinctive, endearingly atrocious, barely legible physician’s scrawl.

Yttrium Oxygen Uranium  
Praseodymium Astatine  
  
Iodine  
Americium  
Iodine Nitrogen  
Lutetium Vanadium  
Tungsten Iodine Thorium  
Yttrium Oxygen Uranium

Beryllium  
Hassium Barium Nitrogen Darmstadtium  
Francium Vanadium Erbium?

Sherlock stares at the paper momentarily.

John watches – awestruck as he always is – as he watches Sherlock’s gears turn.  
_I would let myself be chopped to bits before I’d let anyone touch that beautiful brain_.

Sherlock’s eyes scan the paper, clearly trying to make sense of what’s on the paper. _John’s handwriting, so clearly meant for me to find here._

_  
Question mark at the end, so a message John intended for me to figure out._

_  
A cipher? A question with a numerical answer that is the sum of all the atomic weights?_

_Wait._

_Yttrium. Oxygen. Uranium.     Y – O – U_

_Aha!_

YOU  
PrAt

I  
Am  
IN  
LuV  
WITh  
YOU

Be  
HsBaNDs  
FrVEr?

Sherlock reads it aloud again, just to make sure he’s figured out the code correctly, taking care that he hasn’t misinterpreted any of the symbols.

“You prat. I am in…..in love with you. Be-…..be husbands forever?” His voice cracks and his eyes fill with tears as he reads the last phrase.

He turns to see John Watson beside him at the bench, smiling but smiling through tears. He takes both of Sherlock’s hands in his and begins to speak, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Sherlock Holmes, I love you. I have known it from the moment we met. I had seen years of war, violence, and death, and it had broken me. Broken beyond repair, and then came you, right here where we’re standing. You bound up wounds that were fresh from Afghanistan, and since then you’ve been beside me, always beside me, holding me together, even when I was too blind or too self-absorbed to see what you were doing. 

“I see it. I see it now. Everything you have ever done, every choice you’ve ever made, has been because you’ve been trying to protect me.

“What I want you to know right now, Sherlock, is that I love you more than I love my own life. You make me want to be a better man. You are the only being in the universe that completes me, like the other half of my soul that I didn’t even know I had until there was you. I want to protect _you_ and cherish _you_ with every breath I take. I want to kiss you good night every night, and I want to hold you every morning as dawn breaks. When we stop chasing criminals around London I want us to retire to the country and be grumpy old men who eat toast and jam and take the dog on walks in the village, and I want us to sell honey in the market. I want to yell at you for leaving body parts in the microwave, and I want to make love to you as often as you’ll let me, for the rest of our days together.”

John lets go of Sherlock’s right hand and bends retrieves the box from his pocket. In one motion John bends to one knee and pulls the ring from it to slip on Sherlock’s left ring finger. He kisses the back of Sherlock’s hand before asking,

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes, will you please marry me?”

Wobbly-lipped, teary-eyed, Sherlock pulls John to his feet then sinks into John’s arms. The two of them remain that way in front of the counter in the lab of St. Bart’s, where both lives had been irrevocably altered those many years ago. They hold one another wordlessly as they absorb the profundity of this moment into their marrow. If each notices the tear tracks glistening on the other’s cheeks neither mentions it.

It’s only after several minutes that Sherlock pulls away, a glint in his eye, and gives his answer.  
“Yttrium Einsteinium.” _YEs_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm asking you to suspend your disbelief that the woefully-underfunded NHS has superfluous equipment lying around. I needed a cute story, and Sherlock wanted more lab toys. :)


	13. Vows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> These boys make a promise to each other.

September 5, 2015

“Sherlock, dear, come along, or you’ll be late for your own wedding,” Mrs. Hudson calls out to Sherlock as she clops up the stairs in her heels, folding a handkerchief to keep in her handbag. She’s been tasked with keeping Sherlock right in John’s absence. John, ever the superstitious one, has insisted that they not see each other on the wedding day until the actual ceremony, so he’s spent this last night crashed at Mike Stamford’s flat.  

Mrs. Hudson gets no answer _what is that boy doing_ so she wanders into the flat yoo-hooing and searching for John’s fiance’. Martha Hudson’s heart fills with tenderness and her eyes with tears when she finds him, the son to whom she did not give birth, in front of the full-length mirror in his bedroom, not a hair out of place. His custom-tailored black trousers and soft white dress shirt fit him perfectly; Sherlock looks younger than his forty years, and _my, but he is a dashing young man_ , she thinks as she watches while he readies himself, unaware as yet of her presence. His hands fumble about his neck and this is her first clue that Sherlock has himself all in a bundle of nerves.

“Come along now, let me get that for you,” fusses Mrs. Hudson as she grasps both ends of Sherlock’s tie from his hands and makes quick work of a Windsor knot. “You’ve got butterflies in your stomach, haven’t you?” she asks in the way mothers ask when they already know what the answer will be. “This is a big day, it’s your _wedding_ day, Sherlock Holmes, and I’d be worried about you if you _didn’t_.”

Sherlock’s hands continue to tremble and his eyes focus mostly on the floor, but his pulse is no longer throbbing in his ears, and his palms aren’t as sweaty as they were whilst he was fumbling trying to tie his own tie. Though he has never said the words out loud, Sherlock loves Martha Louise Hudson as much as he loves his own mother.

It started when he had happened across a blurb in the New York Times online about her husband’s prosecution; he had pulled some strings, flown to Miami, and wound his way into the United States district courtroom. After several days’ testimony, he correctly deduced that Mister Hudson was a much bigger fish than even the prosecution team knew, and after sitting in on several days of hearings, Sherlock worked up the courage to go to them during a court recess and point out to them several key factors they had overlooked. So impressed were they that they allowed him to interview Martha (as she introduced herself to him at the time), and before the interview was over he deduced that she was a survivor of his drunken tirades and near-constant verbal and physical abuse for the better part of three decades. Sherlock saw the case through until the conniving, wife-beating bastard was out of sight and out of existence.

From that chance meeting grew a steady friendship that had seen Mrs. Hudson moving home to England and starting a new life, free and safe. They had maintained contact while Sherlock had been in and out of drug rehabilitation centres, and when Sherlock was kicked out of his flat on Montague Street, well, Martha Hudson would rather sleep naked in a metre of snow than let that young man be homeless. She marched down to his favourite sweets shop, bought some raspberry tarts, and walked the streets until she found him huddled behind a set of bins outside a restaurant eating food he’d scavenged. She’d yanked him – lovingly – by the arm and walked him several kilometres back to her Baker Street flat, where she’d made him a cuppa, served him a tart, and told him that from now on he would be her tenant at 221B. They’d work out the rent details later.

She is the same mother sorting his tie for him today as she was those many years ago when she wouldn’t have him sleeping rough. He doesn’t know what he’d do without her.

“What you’re going to do right now is clean your teeth, put that velvet box in your pocket, and get into the car. You’ve got a wedding and a sizzling date very soon, dear.” She winks at him, and he rolls his eyes as sons do when their mothers mention anything that could remotely be construed to be about sex.

*****

 

It is an unseasonably warm day for London, as if nature herself has given her blessing for the wedding of William Sherlock Scott Holmes and John Hamish Watson to be held outdoors at Bingham Gardens overlooking the Thames. Cumulus clouds against the backdrop of a Caribbean-blue sky causes all eyes to squint as the celebrant takes her place under the _chuppah*_ at the front of the meadow where the ceremony is set to begin. On a small table beside her is a tiny urn containing Rosie’s ashes; Sherlock and John have agreed that Rosie deserves to be among the witnesses when her fathers unite their lives.

The rest of the guest list is short but full of meaning for both men. Harry, Greg, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, Angelo, Billy Wiggins, Mycroft, Mike Stamford, and Mummy and Daddy Holmes.

Neither man being religious, they had used Sherlock’s London connections and owed favours to find a celebrant; in the end they had chosen Victoria, a Jewish woman whom Sherlock had assisted solve a case years prior. There had been a series of unsolved assaults on transgender people in London at that time, and this woman was one of the survivors whom he had interviewed in order to track down the assailant. During the course of that interview Sherlock had discovered that – as part the woman’s own devotion to her faith – she officiated same-sex wedding ceremonies free of charge for any couple in need. John and Sherlock had insisted on paying her somehow for officiating, but she refused and instead asked him to do something kind for someone else later on. The husbands have agreed to pay it forward, but they’ve also chosen to include the _chuppah_ as a quiet homage to her.

 “Family and friends, today we celebrate finding love. It is my great honour to preside over the wedding of Mister Holmes and Doctor Watson, as I am certain it is your great honour to witness it,” intones Victoria.

Mycroft winces perfunctorily in his seat, as if it were an elder brother’s duty to feign distaste at the notion of his younger sibling’s happiness.

As she speaks, Victoria spots a tall lean figure shuffle quietly into the back row and take a seat, and the sight of the man catches her breath. What strikes her most is not the scarred face, nor the manner in which his left arm dangles immobile at his side. No, what stands out most to Victoria is the razor-sharp contrast between his fiery red hair and the soft, almost childlike blue eyes. _This man has loved and been loved in return_ , she thinks. _His eyes tell the story_.   

Victoria catches her breath, then continues, “There is no shortage of books written about the subject, no dearth of talking heads wishing to pontificate on how to keep love, but if one truly seeks a living example of love, one need look no further than these two men. Each has endured heartbreak, death, and loss, and each would willingly do so again for the other. Love is not some kind of magical panacea, nor is it the stuff of fairy tales where all the world is a palace and all live happily ever after. Love is learning to live together in the muck of everyday life. Love is remembering that trash bins get set out on Tuesday. Love is remembering what tastes good on his tongue when he’s sick, and making that very thing appear before him on a day he’s feeling poorly. I can think of no two people on this planet who know each other so completely as these two. And now, in the interest of time, I would like Doctor Watson and Mister Holmes to step forward and share their own handwritten vows. Gentlemen?”

****  
It has been a monumental task on the part of the grooms to keep from seeing one another before the ceremony’s start, but they’ve accomplished it with the help of some well-placed curtains beside the _chuppah_ ; Victoria has told both men prior, _“You only get this day once. Don’t cheat and muck it up.”_

Each steps from behind his allocated spot, their steps unconsciously synchronized. They have chosen to forego tuxedoes in favor of navy blue suits.

Sherlock’s heart pounds against his ribs. _I cannot believe this is happening. Finally, I am going to be John Watson’s husband. After all this time, me. John Watson loves me. I want to make this day the happiest one he has ever lived. Did I remember my notes? Yes. Ring? Good. In my pocket. I am the luckiest man alive today._

After years of trauma surgery and combat medicine, John Watson has learned to appear calm despite wanting to claw himself open from the inside out.

At the sight of his husband-to-be, John gasps audibly and brings a hand to his mouth. His eyes are already brimming with tears. _God, you are a sight to behold, Sherlock Holmes. I have never seen you more gorgeous than you are right now, about to become my husband. I can’t wait to take you into my arms and love you for the rest of our allotted days._

As planned, Sherlock reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a folded piece of paper. His hands tremble as he uncreases it – he wants to make sure to get this right _for John_. _My husband_. His voice trembles, but does not falter. _For John_.

“John Watson, you complete me. Before there was you, I was vaguely aware of the notion of deep intimacy between humans but mostly believed it had little application to my own life. I believed myself to be above the need to share the thoughts and activities of my days, and the more intimate processes of the night with another person. The day we met, I realised how very wrong I had been. You have been, without a doubt, the best thing that has ever happened to me, even before we realised that we were arse over tits – can I say that in a public setting? Of course I can, it’s my wedding – for one another. You are the other half of my heart and soul walking around in human flesh.

For the rest of our time together, I promise before all these witnesses to love you in deed as well as in thought and word. I promise to kiss you each morning and each night before bed. I promise to tell you the truth as I know it in all circumstances, to hold nothing back from you. I promise to not hide my vulnerabilities and fears for fear of rejection; I promise to trust you with all of me. I promise to accept all of your fears and vulnerabilities and cherish them as a part of you. I promise to hope all things with you, believe all things are possible when we are together, and endure all manner of things with you by my side.* Today, I give you this ring to wear as a symbol of the promise I have made to bind myself to you forever. John Watson, I love you with every beat of my heart, and for all eternity I will be the most fortunate man alive, for today you become my husband.”

John tries to keep from weeping, but hearing these words from this man renders it impossible. He meets Sherlock’s gaze and allows Sherlock to place the platinum band on his left fourth finger before wipes tears out of both eyes.

“Tough act to follow, he is,” he quips nervously to the crowd. A few chuckles ripple through the audience, and Sherlock’s eyes upon John never waver. John takes one of Sherlock’s hands in each of his – to publicly demonstrate what Sherlock means to him, but also because _Sherlock Holmes keeps him right_ – and with teary eyes begins to speak, knowing his words will be wholly inadequate but he can’t not say it out loud. Not after so many years of leaving words unsaid, no. He will do his damnedest, even if his voice shakes.

“Sherlock Holmes. Once I told you – and I know you heard me – that you were the wisest and most _human_ human being I had ever met. Three years and what feels like a lifetime later, I still believe it.

“What I didn’t see then – and what I’m thrilled to be able to say now – is that you’re also the love of my life, the other half of my soul, the only one who has been able to reassemble the broken pieces of my heart and my life. And now, it is my absolute privilege to declare it to you in front of the people who are most important to us.

Sherlock Holmes, I promise to love you and only you for the rest of the time we have together on earth. I promise to do whatever I must to demonstrate that love to you, the love that you’ve so freely given me more times than I’ve realised, the love you so richly deserve in return. I promise that in everything I do, I will put your needs first. I promise to love all your quirks, and I promise to never leave body parts in the fridge, because two people doing that in our flat would simply unsustainable.

In seriousness, I loved you from the moment we met, and will love you until my last breath. I promise to be tender and careful with your heart. I promise to never play games with it, or with you. For the rest of the time we have together, I want to make you as happy as you have made me today. I’ll cherish, protect, and honor our bond. I’m thrilled that today you’ve become my husband and it gives me equal joy that today I become yours. I’m giving you this ring today so that no matter where we are in the world, whether we are together or apart, you will have this physical reminder for all the world to see that you have a husband who will love you until the end of time. Sherlock Holmes, thank you for loving me. Thank you for allowing me into your life. And today-“ John’s voice cracks but he is determined to finish “-thank you for becoming my husband. I love you.”

There are a few sniffles from the crowd as they watch these two speak to one another, eyes locked, as though there were no one else around. The years of words unsaid, or of words spoken past one another, the years of regret, of loss, and of loneliness, all have led them to right here, right now, promising lives to one another. 

“Well, don’t let me stop you chaps,” chuckles Victoria. “You are now free to share your first kiss of many as husbands.”

John softly takes Sherlock’s face and holds it in both his hands as he smiles and holds his husband’s gaze for a few seconds. Sherlock’s hands light on John’s hips and their lips meet, gently and tentatively at first, then deepening as the weight of the moment falls on their shoulders. They kiss deeply for a few long seconds before pulling apart to face the audience.

Victoria wipes a tear or two out of her eyes before facing the audience and continuing. “Although the husbands are not Jewish themselves, they have elected to include one more meaningful Jewish ceremony today. In a Jewish wedding, it is a joyful end to the ceremony when the groom breaks the glass. Breaking the glass has a twofold significance for John and Sherlock, the first being that as the glass is smashed, so are all the regrets of your pasts. The second meaning, the traditional Jewish one, is that your bond is as permanent as the shattered glass. As there are two grooms, it feels fair that since John Watson-Holmes initiated the wedding kiss, Sherlock Holmes-Watson will be the one to break the glass by stomping it. As you do this, Sherlock, this is the wish we have for you both: May your love sustain you and keep you together for as long as it takes for the pieces of glass to come back together. In other words, may you stay together forever.”

Angelo hands Victoria the champagne glass – _champagne is more romantic, Angelo had said_ \- and Victoria places it on the ground in front of Sherlock, who wastes no time in applying all six feet, one hundred eighty pounds of himself into smashing the goblet into infinitesimal crystalline shards. John gazes at Sherlock and thinks Sherlock’s smile at successfully smashing the past could light a thousand candles in the night.

“It gives me great pleasure,” Victoria intones authoritatively over all present, “to present the newlyweds to you: Mister Sherlock Holmes-Watson and Doctor John Watson-Holmes. As my people would say _, Mazel Tov!”_

The grooms stride out of the ceremony area hand-in-hand and head to a waiting cab that has been – thanks to some pulled strings with the City of London – gleefully decorated for the occasion by Sergeants Anderson and Donovan. Why take a limo – _tedious, boring, conventional_ – when you can take a London cab?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am absolutely in love with the Jewish concept of tikkun olam, which literally means ‘repairing the world.’ As best I understand it, how broadly this is interpreted depends upon the congregation and/or branch, with a wide variation. There are books upon books written about this, so a few sentences isn’t nearly enough to explain it well, but one of the most basic tenets involves human responsibility for fixing what is wrong, broken, or unjust in the world. In my headcanon, Victoria officiates queer weddings for free because for so long her queer community was unable to marry legally; now that legal impediments are no longer present, she believes cost should not be a factor either. (If you are Jewish and want to comment and add to/correct this, please feel free!)
> 
> A chuppah is a canopy present at traditional Jewish weddings that has several symbolic meanings, depending on how observant a Jewish couple is. Neither of the grooms is religious in this ceremony but have chosen to marry under a chuppah as a way of thanking Victoria for her generosity.


	14. Always

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A glimpse of the Holmes-Watson reception.  
> James Sholto makes an appearance.

5 September, 2015

We can’t _not_ have a reception, can we? My new husband loves dancing way too much, and I can’t wait to show him off to the folks around us. Nothing we’ve done so far is traditional, so maybe we can have this one thing that we can do like ordinary people do.

As we enter the reception hall, the well-wishers are almost too thick around us and we almost aren’t able to get in. At the end of the line of people, stood silently by the drinks table, my past greets me. “James.” I swallow the lump in my throat and look away for a moment.

“John,” Sholto says softly to me, almost inaudibly, “I’m glad to see you happy again.” With his good arm he takes my hand.

I feel Sherlock’s grip on my waist tighten a bit. Sherlock knows that before him, before Mary, there was James. We never were meant to be, James and me, and we know that. We met in Afghanistan, during the stress and trauma of combat, and not many people knew about us.

When Sherlock and I first became lovers, I had to tell him about Sholto. I think he suspected something, based on what he had learned at my wedding to Mary. I was trying to make the effort to be completely open with him about my past – about my combat nightmares, about my past boyfriends and girlfriends, about my family – about everything. So I had to tell him about Sholto. There wasn’t a whole lot to tell, since we were only together for a while in Afghanistan, before I got shipped home and we lost touch. But I didn’t hold anything back from Sherlock. He knew about the letters, about the sex, about how Sholto had held me all night one night as I wept when I’d seen one too many youth bleeding out in the hills of Helmand.

Sherlock didn’t say much when I told him all this. But the next morning I’d awakened to an empty bed and thought I’d royally fucked up, until I heard Sherlock puttering around in the kitchen and saw a note on the nightstand in his handwriting. It read:  
_I am not jealous  
Of what came before me_

 _Come with a man_  
_On your shoulders_  
 _Come with a hundred men in your hair_  
 _Come with a thousand men between your bosom and your feet_  
 _Come like a river_  
 _Full of drowned men_  
 _which flows down to the wild sea_  
 _to the eternal surf, to forever._

 _Bring them all_  
_where I am waiting for you_  
 _We shall always be alone_  
 _We shall always be, you and I_  
 _alone on earth_  
 _to start our life._  
\- Pablo Neruda

Sherlock surprised even me with that one. I still have some trust issues now and then. But I’m learning to trust Sherlock with everything.

It does not surprise me when Sholto lets go of my hand to take Sherlock’s. “You are a lucky man, Mr. Holmes-Watson. I wish you all the best.”

Sherlock beams at me, then back at Sholto. “I don't believe in luck, but I am indeed a lucky man. Thank you for taking care of John’s heart before I got to it.”

We’ve hired a concert band to play the music, but he doesn’t know what song I’ve chosen for our first dance; I’ve only promised him that he’ll know how to dance to it. Come to think of it, there’s not much that that gorgeous man _doesn’t_ know how to do. I’m still in shock over the fact that we’re finally here now, together, and he’s finally my husband. _My husband._ No regrets. Only the two of us against the world from here on out.

As I take him by the hand and the band strikes up our song, I wrap my arm around his waist and he cups the nape of my neck as our other free hands intertwine. I whisper in his ear, “Sod the guests, my love, this song is for you and only you.” He nods quietly and gazes at me with a love I’m still not sure I know how to capture and hold in my heart. I am certain as I croon Etta’s words to him that this brilliant man grasps the significance behind them; our guests hear the song lyrics, but he understands the meaning reserved only for the two of us.

“At last, my love has come along….”  
_I was gone on you the first day we met at Bart’s._  
  
“My lonely days are over…..  
_When you found me I was a broken man_  
  
“And life is like a song.  
_And you have put me back together._

Our bodies are pressed together. I can feel his heart pounding in his chest and his every breath on my neck. His curls brush my cheek. His smell is intoxicating, aphrodisiacal.

“At last the skies above are blue….”  
_I have waited so long to love you, my darling._

“My heart was wrapped up in clover the night I looked at you.  
_No one has ever existed or ever will exist who means as much to me as you do._

“I found a dream that I could speak to….  
_In you I have found the one who knows me by heart, the one who reads my soul line by line and isn’t afraid of it._

“I found a thrill to press my cheek to…  
_I promise to always make you feel wanted, loved, cherished, and desired._

“A thrill I’ve never known, oh yeah….  
_I want to make love to your body, mind, heart, and soul._

“You smiled, you smiled, oh and then the spell was cast.  
_I would go to the ends of the earth and back to make you smile, the smile that’s mine alone._

“And here we are in Heaven…  
_You intoxicate me, and I am thankful to a deity I’m not sure I believe in that you are_

“For you are mine at last.”  
_My husband._

For the sake of our guests, I dip him at the end, which is interesting with him being taller than me, but like everything else we do, we make it work. I pull him up, gather his curls in my hands, and place the softest kiss on his lips. I see the hungry surprise in his eyes when I slip in just a tiny bit of tongue to remind him that this day is far from over and there’s way more where that kiss came from.

“Have I told you today that I love you, John?” he asks when we pull apart.

“Maybe once or twice, but I’ll always let you say it again,” I whisper in his ear, just a ghost of a breath.

Greg gives the best man speech, something about how it was about time us two bastards figured it out and how the whole of Scotland Yard owes him twenty quid apiece because he always knew we’d end up together. He toasts us and wishes us all the best, which is nice. Greg’s a good bloke. We have a light lunch, and thank God there isn’t a big group of people standing around mingling. Neither of us much likes small talk, and we aren’t big partiers.

Once the party is over and the well-wishers are gone, we are both wrung out. Emotionally and physically. We head back to the flat – and yes, I carried my husband over the threshold, laugh if you want to - where we collapse into bed from sheer exhaustion, and we sleep for what feels like a year. It really is more like three hours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pablo Neruda is one of my favorite poets, and this is one of my favorite poems of his. I've been waiting for the chance to use this in a Johnlock context, and voila! Here it is. :)


	15. Bare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wedding night love and feels.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This Elton John song has always been something I think they'd play or sing to each other on their wedding night. It's a gorgeous song, full of love and admiration for the beloved, which in this case is both men.

_“In all honesty I'm speechless and I don't know where to start_  
 _And I can't explain But it's something about the way you look tonight_  
 _Oh, it takes my breath away….”_           - Elton John, “ _Something About the Way You Look Tonight”_   
  
We are married. John Watson, _my husband_. I am still in awe as I swirl the words around in my mouth, still in somewhat of a shock that we are married. Finally.

I was certain I would not sleep, but three hours later, we awaken in the flat still dressed in the suits we wore at the wedding. My husband lies sleeping next to me and I prop myself on my elbow to watch him, mesmerised. His face is always devastatingly handsome, but in sleep he is almost boyish. I imagine what our lives would have been like had we met twenty years sooner, what we would have been capable of, and I lay one hand over his face as if to verify that he is still there and still mine whilst wistfully thinking of the what-ifs.

He knows me too well, for he opens one eye, squinting at the late afternoon sun peeking through our window and groans, “Smashed glass, remember? That’s all in the past now. We’re here now, and we’re going to make the most of it.”

 _John Watson, you keep me right_.

“Starting,” my husband smirks, “right now.” He turns to lie face-up on the bed and wraps his arms around my neck to pull me down on top of him into a deep, soul-dizzying kiss. Oh, his lips are warm and sweet, and I cannot think about anything else. He moans and tells me how gorgeous I am, and I don’t know what to think about that. No one but John has ever told me that, and now, he is the only one I ever want to hear speaking. He kisses me over and over, his mouth over mine, his mouth inside mine, his tongue exploring my mouth and teeth and jaw, and my insides are on fire. I stretch myself over top of him and I can rapidly feel myself harden in my trousers. We have made love many times in recent months, but he has never been inside me, and….and I want him so desperately. I can feel his cock hardening against mine, and I say the only thing I know to say.

“John.”

“Darling.” John gasps out as we pull apart just enough so that our foreheads touch but mere millimetres separate the rest of our faces.

I am speechless and cannot begin to articulate exactly what else it is that I want. “Please. I want you.”

“You have me. Forever.” whispers my husband, holding my gaze as tenderly as I’ve ever see him be with any living person. “Tonight is ours and ours alone, darling. I have been waiting for this night for longer than you know, and tonight, Sherlock Holmes-Watson, I am going to make love to you properly, as my husband.”

I am breathless. And I am in heaven.

We roll over so that my husband is on top of me, and we kiss some more. I will never tire of this feeling, the soft wet sweet sensation of John Watson’s mouth in mine, our saliva mingling as the rest of our bodies will soon follow. Our souls mingling more deeply still.

Slowly, he begins to unbutton my shirt, lavishing me with kisses, and I am lightheaded. He knows what the feel of his mouth does to me, and he continues to do it. He tells me over and over how lucky he is to be my husband, and how he has waited forever for the right time for us to make love in this way. He caresses the skin of my chest. If there were a deity I believed in, I would be thanking them for the gift of my husband John Watson in this moment.

John continues to slowly undress me, leaving kisses where my clothes once were, lavishing praise on this body I once viewed only as transport. I am torn between begging him to rush because I want him inside me right this second and wanting the bliss as pure as any I’ve ever injected into my veins to last eternally. My clothes come off entirely and, as he has never done before when we’ve made love, rolls me onto my stomach. I begin to tell him _no, not this way, I want us to see each other the first time you enter me_.

Instead, he brackets my body with his hands and knees and begins to kiss the scars on my back. Never before has any human being been so tender with my body. The events which placed them there are ones which I do not care to recall, but I would undergo them a thousand times if every time guaranteed me a return to the man who with each kiss heals the scars of my soul that lie buried deeply beneath the scars of my body. Tears form at the corners of my eyes, unbidden and unstoppable, from the sweetness which envelops me at being laid so thoroughly bare before another human being and having that trust rewarded. As careful as John Watson is being with my body, he is infinitely more careful with my heart.

As he kisses my back, he tells me he realises that I left for him, that I was trying to protect him, and _thank you, darling Sherlock_.

I feel the tears that fall from his eyes onto my back, a sort of final cleansing of our past. I laugh through my own tears at what a sight we must be: two pasty middle-aged men with crow’s feet who’ve taken forever to finally find one another, crying on their wedding night as they make love. It’s equal parts mirth, relief, humor, and adoration, and I can feel rather than see that John’s tears are mixed with a smile as well.

John gently rolls me back over, and I take advantage of the opportunity to sit up and begin divesting him of his clothing. My hands are trembling and I am not nearly as agile at this as he is; there is a good bit of button fumbling involved, but soon enough he is completely nude as well. For a moment we pause and drink in the moment, gazing at one another’s naked bodies, in awe of the beauty of the love we share. We’ve seen one another naked many times by now, but this time feels different – more profound, more intimate.

I take his face in my hands and pull him to me in a kiss. If I weren’t so desperate to feel the rest of him as we make love, I would be willing to stay like this forever, because John Watson is a fantastic, tender kisser. I gentle him toward me as I lie back so that he is on top of me again, and every square inch of our bare skin is touching. Our hands travel up and down one another’s bodies, exploring back, hips, legs, arms, hair, cocks.

It is at the point John’s hand ghosts over my cock and balls that I gasp and moan involuntarily. My senses are overwhelmed with John Watson – _my husband John Watson_ \- over me, on me, and tongue inside my mouth. He reassures me of his presence _I’ve got you, darling_ and continues his exploration and worship of my body. I wrap my arms around him, one hand cupping the back of his head and the other around his muscular back; his belly has gone a bit soft with age but his back remains solid.

My legs instinctively wrap around his waist, pulling him closer to me. If we could meld together I would welcome it. As it is, our cocks are slotted next to one another and it is bliss. We rock together, gasps and moans and the sound of our kisses punctuating the silence. _John, please_ , I tell him, _I need you inside me_.

 _Have you ever done this before?_ he wants to know. I tell him that I have not, because that is the truth. I have been propositioned, but I have never seen the draw nor had the desire before now. _Then we are going to take our time, love, because I will not allow myself to hurt you_. I cannot fathom that something I want so much with a man to whom I would give my soul can possibly hurt, but I trust my beloved John.

He kisses down the length of my stomach and worships my cock. Oh god, I have to hold back my instinct to thrust into his mouth. I could orgasm from this alone. John Watson’s tongue is magic. He moves down to my perineum, all the while caressing my legs and hips and licks gently under my balls. _Jesus. No bliss from a case comes close to this._

 _John_ , I gasp. _I want to feel you inside me. Please_. I hand him the bottle of lube that I know is in the bedside table, because I can’t wait another second. He kisses my mouth and reassures me _yes, darling, we’re getting there. I’m going to prepare you with my fingers, alright?_ I hum and rock my hips up to allow him better access, _yes god, John, anything to hurry this along_.

One of John’s lube-slicked fingers breaches my entrance and my eyes go wide. While it is not unpleasant, it is unlike anything I could have anticipated in my wildest dreams, and I now understand the value of moving slowly. I close my eyes and allow myself to feel. His finger moves unhurriedly in and out as my muscles relax to accommodate him. This is….different. _And nice,_ I whisper to him. He asks if I am ready for a second finger and I nod.

Again, the sensation of being stretched is new and I breathe deeply to become accustomed to two fingers. John is a considerate lover, and asks me over and over if I am alright. _More than alright,_ I tell him. He continues to lavish praise on my body and I am dizzy with love and lust. I ask him if he can add a third finger because I am ready to be done with preparation; I want John’s cock.

After several more minutes of John’s three fingers inside me, he crooks his fingers – he is a physician, I remember – and brushes my prostate. It causes a deep, warm sensation inside my pelvis and I moan loudly, begging him to do it again. He obliges me. I still want his cock, but this is….quite agreeable.

 _Alright, lovely_ , he whispers, a misty gleam in his eye. _Are you ready for me?_

I have never been more ready for anything in my life. My legs open wide to receive him.

He smears a gracious dollop of lube onto his penis and bends down to take me into his arms for yet another series of kisses before lining himself up at my backside. His thick beautiful cock stretches me, and although he has taken his time and prepared me well, the sensation is still one that requires some getting used to. I do not mind it, though, because this is my beloved John.

He slides inside me ever so slowly, a look of wonder and amazement on his face. For my part, I am ready to cry, not from pain, but from joy. _You feel so good, John. I love you._

_You feel so tight and warm, love. You are a wonder, did you know that?_

John leans down to lick at my neck and then down my chest to where he finds a nipple. The sensation of John Watson’s penis inside me and his tongue sucking my nipple causes my back to arch in ecstasy and my cock to leak in anticipation.

As if I cannot feel any more bliss, John begins to move inside me, at first infinitesimally slowly. My legs wrap around his waist once more because I do not want him going anywhere. He leans down – or do I pull him down? – to kiss me. My arms are around his neck and I want us to stay like this forever. It is impossible to know where I stop and where John begins. _I love this_ , I tell him. _I love it too,_ he responds. We are both a little teary-eyed as we gasp and moan against one another.

I lean into him to kiss his nipples and he warns me that he will not last long if I keep that up. _It’s alright_ , I tell him, _because I’m fairly close myself_. This is far better than I had imagined. As if on cue, John picks up the pace and changes his angle just a bit, and I could fall apart in his arms. The combination of John being inside me, hitting my prostate, and today being the day he became my husband makes me feel….almost radioactive. Alive. Like I could melt into earth and someone would find my remains in a century, still glowing. He rocks inside me, bringing me almost to the edge of orgasm before slowing down and kissing me again. My scrotum hangs full and heavy over where John’s cock is inside me, and the warmth of my prostate is indescribable.

I reach a point where I can take no more anticipation, and John must read my mind, because he begins to thrust more deeply and forcefully, and it is gloriously overwhelming. I am rendered speechless; the only utterances I can make are moans and gasps of the most primal sort. Within a few short minutes a blaze unlike any I’ve ever experienced prior ignites within me, and I cannot help but touch own cock. My other hand is around John’s neck, pulling him into a kiss that will bruise my face, and my legs are opened as widely as humanly possible to allow him to reach deeply into my body, while my ankles are clasped behind his back to keep him close to me. I can feel that John is nearing orgasm by the way he begins to shudder above me; he thrusts and thrusts while kissing me and moaning my name. When he finally comes, I can feel his cock shuddering against my prostate, and that is my tipping point. If I could physically explode I would. Pleasure the likes of which I’ve never experienced rocks throughout my body, and my cock spurts warm thick streams of come over my abdomen. After what feels like ages but can’t be more than a minute the strongest waves are over and I begin to come down from the most fantastic high I’ve ever experienced. Sex with John Watson is better than anything I’ve ever ingested, injected, or snorted. Gauging by the blissed-out smile and sighs from my husband lying on top of me, I think he might agree.

 _John_ , I say. _That was fantastic._

 _That’s not what people usually say_ , he responds. I ask him what they usually say.

 _Piss off,_ comes the reply, as we burst into fits of giggles and afterward fall into a peaceful slumber on our first night as husbands.

 

FIN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU for those who've read and stuck with this story. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I have enjoyed sharing it with you. There is an epilogue coming to tie it up, but the plot is done. :)


	16. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In chemistry, a catalyst is a substance that speeds up the rate of a chemical reaction without having its own chemical composition permanently altered. 
> 
> In this fic, Rosie Watson was the catalyst that brought her dads together. So while it seems like John and Sherlock are the two main characters, the entire story is named after her.

January 7, 2016

Sherlock knows it is illogical to be angry at the sun for shining, but that doesn’t stop him from being angry.  By rights the entire world does not have to turn to grey just because his daughter, the daughter that he and John had cherished for such a brief stay on earth, is dead and the urn containing her ashes in the ground, but he wishes it were thus all the same.

Sherlock clings to his husband’s hand as they stand motionless by her grave, a tiny marker in a vast green meadow the last testament to an unknowing world that she had once drawn breath. Neither man speaks; words are superfluous. They have already been spoken, shouted, sobbed, and whispered into whatever vastness is listening.

Had anyone casually mentioned to Sherlock Holmes ten – no, two – years earlier that he would be holding his husband John’s hand on the first anniversary of their daughter’s death, he’d have cackled derisively and offered to phone a psychiatrist on their behalf. Yet here they both stand, grief balanced gently as the price humans sometimes pay for love, silently remembering their daughter and her momentary life.

They will stand here for a few minutes and weep. They will thank their beloved baby girl for the part she played in creating the life they now share, united seamlessly and forever. They will go back to Baker Street, order takeout, and hold one another by the fireplace. They will go to bed, where they will read, talk, make love, and then sleep.

For the rest of their days, from Baker Street the next morning to Sussex in old age, they will awaken in the morning and face the day. Together.


End file.
